


Behind the Sea (alternate universe version)

by AirgiodSLV



Series: Behind the Sea [1]
Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-06
Updated: 2008-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiodSLV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Heads up,” Gabe announces when he steps onto the bridge. “William saw an octopus.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Sea (alternate universe version)

**Author's Note:**

> Universe based on the television series seaQuest DSV. While I did my best to research for this story, it is not my field of study and I do expect there to be some scientific inaccuracies. I apologize in advance for any errors. Thanks to [](http://maleyka.livejournal.com/profile)[**maleyka**](http://maleyka.livejournal.com/) for being with me every step of the way, [](http://zarah5.livejournal.com/profile)[**zarah5**](http://zarah5.livejournal.com/) for her advice and expertise, [](http://disarm-d.livejournal.com/profile)[**disarm_d**](http://disarm-d.livejournal.com/) for clearing my head, and [](http://ignipes.livejournal.com/profile)[**ignipes**](http://ignipes.livejournal.com/) for the excellent and thorough beta.

_Weddell Sea, off the coast of the Antarctic Peninsula_

Gabe is used to finding William in his private quarters. The military code of conduct doesn’t seem to apply to him, so he’s in the habit of letting himself in whenever he has something to report, and waiting for Gabe to return.

Also, he’s very fond of Travis.

“Captain McCoy,” Gabe greets the hologram holding court in the center of his tactical table.

“Captain Saporta,” Travis answers, with a bob of his head that passes for a salute between equals.

William rolls over on Gabe’s bunk and beams at him. “I saw an octopus,” he announces. “In my cereal.”

“Does that mean anything, or is it just an octopus?” Gabe asks. William probably doesn’t know the answer to that, but it never hurts to ask anyway.

As expected, William shrugs one lanky shoulder and shakes the hair back from his eyes. “What does an octopus mean, really?” he asks. “It’s not particularly symbolic.”

“Entrapment, maybe?” Gabe suggests, although he doesn’t know what an octopus would signify either. “Danger?”

“Octopussy,” Travis muses, stroking his chin. “James Bond.”

William makes a face at that, because he doesn’t approve of the way women are portrayed in classic film even though Gabe knows for a fact that he thinks James Bond is really fucking cool. Travis can get away with more than the rest of them, though, being a hologram and all.

“Octopus, right,” Gabe says, getting them back on track. “I’ll tell the bridge crew.”

William smiles and rolls out of Gabe’s bunk, which leads to a brief pang of desire for Gabe to roll him right back into it. He doesn’t let himself dwell on that, though, because you can’t be too careful with parapsychologists. William in particular seems tuned into the sex shit.

“I’ll tell you if I see anything else,” William says, pushing his hair back. He waves, says, “Bye Travie,” and lets himself out.

Gabe doesn’t exactly watch his ass when he goes, but he’s not looking anywhere else, either.

Travis hoots as soon as the door closes, and Gabe snaps his gaze up towards the table. “Shut the fuck up, you’re dead.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a nice piece of ass,” Travis says serenely.

“Yeah,” Gabe agrees, and debates for the hundredth time whether the possible court martial for sexual harassment would be worth it.

-

William has been assigned to them since Gabe first took command. He’s a trained parapsychologist with a strong psi factor, but his visions are largely unreliable and his gift is sporadic at best. He tends to show up in Gabe’s quarters every week or so, and half the time he’s only there to talk to Travis.

Privately, the United Earth Oceans had let Gabe know that they were assigning William to his boat because they thought a psychic might come in handy, but they couldn’t spare one of the really good ones, who are always in demand for diplomatic missions and negotiations. Gabe doesn’t mind. He’s met the scary ones, the melon-heads who can see right through your brain and tell you what you’re thinking before you know it. He’s fine with having William instead.

Technically William’s on board as the ship’s counselor, but he’s terrible at it. William believes in telling the truth, and this is not always the best quality for a counselor to have. His method of counseling involves explaining to people earnestly and at great length exactly what’s wrong with them, so most of the crew try to avoid counseling whenever possible.

“Heads up,” Gabe announces when he steps onto the bridge. “William saw an octopus.”

“What kind of octopus?” Alex asks, already leaning over his console to do a search.

Gabe doesn’t actually know, come to think of it, but he’s fairly certain William wouldn’t either. “Eight legs, big head,” he says instead, coming over to where his XO Ryland is already drawing up an info sheet on their location and status.

“That helps,” Ryland tells him, swiveling the screen in his direction. “We’ll get that narrowed right down for you.”

“Find me a bio-geek,” Gabe tells Alex. “Get Walk-- Asher. Get me Asher. She’s got better legs.”

“They hate when you call them that,” Ryland reminds him, but it’s not as if Ryland cares, so Gabe just grins.

He might have to call Walker anyway, since Victoria is more into fish, but Smith is on duty at his station, and Gabe has learned to avoid having them in the same room together lately. He’d rather not have to put in a requisition order for any more expensive and unfortunately breakable equipment.

“Victoria,” he says when she steps through the door. “You look lovely as ever. Talk to me about octopuses.”

Victoria stuffs her hands into the pockets of her white lab coat and raises an uninterested eyebrow. “Around here? There are several species. They live in shallow water and the deep sea, so it wouldn’t be unusual to come across one. They’re very shy and don’t grow more than 55 feet across, so it’s not likely they’d pose any sort of threat to us.”

Gabe scoffs a little. He tries not to do that to members of the science team, but he’s proud of his boat. There’s nothing on the planet that could pose any sort of threat as far as he’s concerned. “Do they mean anything that you know of? Any particular reason we might come across one?”

Victoria looks confused by his train of logic, but she’s also cool as a cucumber and completely unfazed. “If we hit a rich feeding ground,” she suggests. “Or if one of the WSKRS gets too close to one’s lair.”

Gabe turns immediately to Sensor Chief Smith, whose job it is to keep track of the Wireless Sea Knowledge Retrieval Satellites, and who’s already scowling at him. “I think I’d have noticed a fifty-foot octopus, thanks,” Smith informs him. “WSKRS haven’t turned up anything unusual.”

“Keep your eyes open,” Gabe says, because William’s visions might not be particularly reliable, but they almost always mean something when he has them. “Let’s find this octopus.”

-

Jon’s late for his afternoon shift, but it’s fine, because Brendon is in the pool arguing with their dolphin.

“No,” Brendon says again, trying to keep his hands high enough out of the water to sign while fending off inquisitive jabs from a pointy dolphin beak. It’s not like Dylan is watching his hands anyway.

“What’s up?” Jon asks, perching on the side of the pool and letting his legs dangle into the water. Brendon starts backing towards him, moving through the water in little hops while still signing and defending.

“He wants to go outside,” Brendon explains, bouncing up on his toes when Dylan goes for his stomach. “Dylan, no. Cold. Cold water. Antarc—” He pauses halfway through spelling. “Jon, is there a sign for Antarctica?”

Jon scratches his chin, rough from a few days’ growth. “Probably, but he won’t know it. Frozen water?”

Brendon rubs Dylan with one hand until he rolls onto his side, then makes the signs. “Frozen water, Dylan. Cold. Froz— hard water. Hard water.”

Dylan looks unimpressed, but rolls further for more rubbing. Brendon counts that as a compromise he can live with.

“He might be able to go out for a while,” Jon says thoughtfully, kicking his legs lazily in the pool. “As long as he comes back in when we call him. One of us could suit up and swim with him.”

“Jon Walker,” Brendon scolds, splashing over to the rim of the pool and pulling himself out. “I’ve been arguing with him for the past twenty minutes. Don’t undo all of my hard work with your lenience.”

“Spare the rod, spoil the dolphin,” Jon agrees solemnly, then reaches down to rub Dylan’s head when it butts up against his leg.

“I’ll talk to Spencer, see what the temperatures are like tomorrow,” Brendon sighs. “Maybe he can go out for a while. He hates being cooped up, even on a thousand-foot long submarine.”

One of the best things about Spencer is that he knows when and where they are at all times, even off-duty and half-asleep. Brendon’s woken him up before to ask, and Spencer always answers, even if he is a lot grumpier about sharing that information in the middle of the night. Spencer will know the second they cross into dolphin-safe water.

Jon twitches a little, but Brendon doesn’t regret mentioning Spencer. He’s sympathetic, but the standoff can’t last forever. A submarine, even one this size, is smaller than you might think when you’re trying to avoid someone.

“Want me to feed him?” Jon asks, smoothly changing the subject.

“Would you?” Brendon asks plaintively. “I have a staff meeting.”

Technically, because Brendon is the highest-ranking marine mammologist and head of the science team, Dylan is Brendon’s and has been ever since he came on board. Jon named him, though, and he spends a lot of time with Dylan in the pool, playing volleyball and tossing rings.

Lately, Jon has spent even more time in the pool than usual. Brendon pretends not to notice.

“Sure thing,” Jon says, already sliding into the water. “We have fish in the catch?”

“More than enough,” Brendon confirms, already stripping out of his wetsuit. “Just open the grate and let him chase them.” He kneels at the edge of the pool when Dylan surfaces, rubbing his hand over the smooth melon. “See? At least I never feed you dead fish.”

-

During the staff meeting, Brendon has an idea so brilliant that even he’s impressed by it. This isn’t all that unusual; Brendon does most of his best thinking in staff meetings. He generally takes five minutes to report on what the science department is doing, and then spends the rest of the hour pretending to listen and doodling whales.

He’s gotten really good at drawing whales. His favorites are the Orcas.

The staff meeting is almost over, so Brendon doesn’t have a lot of room left on his paper. He’s too excited to wait, though, so he scribbles his idea over the dorsal fin of a particularly lovely cetacean specimen and passes it to Ryan. Or tries to, anyway, but Ryan is unfortunately one of those people who don’t believe in passing notes during staff meetings. Brendon’s tried before.

Ryan ignores the paper Brendon is trying desperately to push under his arm and focuses stubbornly on Spencer, who is busy telling everyone that there’s absolutely nothing of interest off the coast of Antarctica. He makes special note of the fact that he hasn’t seen an octopus. Brendon doesn’t know what the octopus has to do with anything; it’s possible he missed something earlier in the meeting while he was drawing whales.

Brendon spends a few minutes pouting at Ryan’s profile. It doesn’t actually do any good, but he’s enjoying the view. Ryan has gorgeous eyelashes, and hair that probably doesn’t meet military specifications, and little pointy ears kind of like a pixie. His nose is pretty cute as well.

When he’s not drawing seascapes, Brendon also tends to spend a good amount of the staff meeting looking at Ryan. He’s glad William never bothers to show up to these things.

Bob finally finishes reporting on security stuff, blah blah blah, and they’re released. Brendon doesn’t wait to pounce.

“Ross,” he says excitedly. “Ross, I have a brilliant idea. I need your help.”

“I have to go to the bridge,” Ryan says, but he’s at least pausing, so Brendon barrels ahead.

“I want to rig a set of speakers underwater,” Brendon explains. He sketches a quick tank for emphasis, with little boxes inside and wavy lines of sound coming out of them, all heading towards a somewhat lumpy but obviously happy Dylan. “To play music in the moon pool. For Dylan. We’re too far south for him to go out, he’s going crazy. This would give him something new to do.”

Ryan looks at Brendon like he’s a crazy person. “You want to put speakers underwater?” he asks, and even without inflection his tone sounds dubious. “You realize speakers are run with electricity. Electricity and water don’t really mix.”

“We could wrap the cables,” Brendon insists hopefully. “Or rewire them, make them run on batteries or something.”

“Batteries and water don’t really mix either,” Spencer puts in from the other side of Ryan, where he’s lingering so they can do that BFF thing and go everywhere together. Brendon turns his pleading look on Spencer instead. Spencer is a lot more susceptible to Brendon’s pouting than Ryan is.

“Spence,” he says. “Tell him. We could find a way. Dylan is so bored; we can’t play with him all the time. This way he could listen to whale song, or our voices, or prerecorded music. We could teach him the classics, Spencer. Music appreciation.”

“He’s a dolphin,” Ryan says.

“Dolphins are very intelligent mammals,” Brendon explains patiently, for probably the ninety-millionth time since he started dealing with military personnel. “He’ll be able to process it. Sound travels through water differently, though, so we’d have to get special speakers or something.”

“I don’t think we have that kind of equipment,” Ryan tells him. Spencer just cocks a hip thoughtfully, arms folded loosely over his chest. Brendon thinks Spencer is probably his best hope.

“I could do it myself,” he pleads, although he has a pretty full schedule and very little idea of what to do with electronics. He’ll probably electrocute himself in the moon pool by accident or something, but at least he could try. “Just give me some spare parts or something, whatever you have.”

“You’re not doing it yourself,” Spencer cuts in before Ryan can answer. Brendon turns his focus back to Ryan with the best hopeful eyes he can muster.

Ryan pauses for a long time, but he finally says, “I’ll see what I can do. _After_ my shift.”

Brendon beams at him. “Ryan Ross, you’re my absolute favorite.”

-

“He’s going to make a huge mess of everything,” Ryan complains, on a private channel because Spencer’s station is halfway across the bridge and it’s easier to have conversations over the com. There are definite advantages to being the communications officer.

“So do it yourself,” Spencer returns evenly. Ryan makes a face and flips switches at random.

“Who would think playing music for a dolphin is a good idea anyway?” Ryan asks. Someone needs to be the voice of reason around here.

“He’s a scientist,” Spencer points out. “They do all sorts of weird things.”

Ryan refrains from answering with ‘You should know,’ because the whole Jon thing is still a little raw. The whole crew is basically on one side or the other, with the sole exception of Brendon, who has somehow managed to stay neutral and remain close friends with both of them. Ryan has no idea how he does it.

Ryan likes Jon a lot, and did even before he began his bumbling, ridiculous, moon-eyed courtship of Spencer, but Ryan is Spencer’s best friend and always has been, so the lines are pretty clearly drawn. He doesn’t approve of Brendon playing both sides. Spencer might be fine with Jon and Brendon staying buddies, but Ryan is not. Spencer’s too much of a pushover.

“Speaking of scientists, any sign of an octopus yet?” Alex’s voice cuts in through his headset, and Ryan starts guiltily, jerking his head up. Alex smiles at him, and Ryan curses silently. He’ll have to find another frequency. Alex was a communications officer on another sub before he became their Mission Specialist, though, so he’d probably just find them again.

Spencer doesn’t seem all that put off by it. “Nothing,” he sighs. “Why am I looking for octopuses again?”

“Octopodes,” Ryan corrects automatically. He speaks eight languages fluently and can roughly translate three more; it doesn’t seem like a lot to ask that people learn their own native tongue.

“Because William had a vision,” Alex answers dutifully, and then snorts. “Gabe and Beckett, it’s like the blind leading the blindfolded.”

“Captain on the bridge,” Spencer warns, and all three of them click off their coms.

“Smith, William just asked me if we were heading north yet,” Gabe says as he enters, heading over to the navigation console.

Spencer looks bewildered, but to his credit, he only blinks once. “Well, we’re heading towards Antarctica,” he says slowly. “So…no.”

“Exactly,” Gabe says with satisfaction. “Let’s change course.”

Spencer throws Ryan a confused look, and Ryan shrugs. He’s been here for a year now, he’s gotten used to taking orders from Gabe that don’t make a lot of sense.

“Straight north is Deception Island,” Ryland reports from where he’s leaning over the navigation readout. “Do you want to head towards it or go around?”

“Good question,” Gabe acknowledges, just as Spencer says, “Oh, wow.”

They all turn to look, and Spencer stares intently at his monitor for a few seconds before asking, “When Beckett said he saw an octopus, did he maybe mean a squid?”

“What have you got?” Alex asks, coming over to join Spencer. They both stare at the screen for a moment, and then Alex says, “Holy shit.”

“Main screen,” Gabe orders, already moving to look. The camera switches over to a WSKRS view, and all of them squint for a minute before the writhing mass of organisms becomes clear.

“Jesus,” Ryland says in surprise.

“Yeah,” Gabe agrees. “That’s a fucking lot of squid.”

-

“No,” Brendon says decisively. “No way. Absolutely not.”

“What?” Gabe asks. Ryan thinks he still hasn’t gotten used to the fact that Brendon constantly forgets he’s on a military submarine and that his opinions don’t necessarily matter.

“First,” Brendon begins, “we are in the Weddell Sea. If you open up the sea doors long enough to get a squid inside the boat, you will drop the temperature of the water inside significantly, possibly rapidly enough to cause damage. Second, squid are carnivorous, and I don’t care what size it is, you’re not putting it into the same tank as a bottlenose dolphin.”

Brendon crosses his arms. In his white lab coat and girl jeans, he looks tiny and ridiculous standing up to Gabe, but Ryan is fairly sure that if he doesn’t get his way on this, his entire team will throw a massive scientific shitfit.

Gabe scratches the hinge of his jaw for a second. “We could trap it somewhere,” he suggests.

“What about one of the ballasts?” Ryland asks, pulling up a schematic.

“Torpedo tube,” Ryan says, almost without thinking. He shrugs uncomfortably when they all turn to look at him. “Lots of room, isolated from the main tank, unaffected by water temperature.”

“Genius,” Gabe decides. “Let’s do it. Suarez, work me some hyper-reality magic.”

“Aye sir,” Alex replies, carefully pulling on the gloves covered in wires and sensors responsible for navigating the Hyper-Reality Probe. He flexes his fingers, and onscreen the robotic probe echoes the movement by kicking its mechanical legs.

“Which tube?” Ryland asks, fingers already poised over the controls.

“All of them. We’re not especially likely to come under attack off the coast of Antarctica, although Ross, keep your ears open anyway, just in case.”

“Aye sir,” Ryan responds automatically, tuning into the external communications and turning up his microphone volume. He sees Spencer swing around to his console at the same time, tapping into WSKRS controls to do sonar scans of the immediate area.

“Just one squid,” Gabe says, voice low as if trying to hypnotize the squid into coming aboard. “All we need is one.”

“Tubes flooded,” Ryland reports.

“All clear on sonar,” Spencer reports, and Ryan nods agreement. All he can hear is ambient bridge noise, and the faint whirring of the Hyper-Reality Probe moving through the water outside.

“What’s taking so long?” Gabe asks after a while. Ryan cranes his neck to look, but from this angle all he can see is Alex’s face, tight with concentration, and his hands upraised to maneuver the probe.

“I’m trying to herd a squid into a torpedo tube underwater using a remote-controlled robotic dog,” Alex points out, teeth gritted as he tilts his left hand slowly to one side, fingers splayed.

“You have a point,” Gabe acknowledges.

“Ryland,” Alex calls, both hands tilting up slowly.

“I’ve got it,” Ryland answers, fingers flying over the keys. “Get clear, the doors are closing.”

“I’m out,” Alex confirms, wrists curving in the graceful swimming motion he uses to bring the probe back to the boat.

“Doors are sealed, torpedo tube five still flooded,” Ryland reports, looking up at Gabe. “Sir, I do believe you’ve got yourself a squid.”

-

Sometimes Brendon thinks Gabe confuses ‘scientist’ with ‘omnipotent all-knowing godlike being.’ He’s flattered by the comparison, but that still doesn’t mean he can work miracles.

“What do you mean, tell you everything?” Brendon asks, trying to hide his confusion. “It’s a squid.”

“There has to be a reason William saw this,” Gabe says. “Is it unusual in any way? Strange for a squid? Are there supposed to be ten thousand of them all swimming around in the same area?”

“Not to cast aspersions,” Ryland says mildly, “but there have been times – and again, I’m not blaming anyone here – when we’ve spent several days tracking down a specific coral reef just because William saw a tropical fish, or a week tailing a private fishing vessel because William’s subconscious decided it wanted a tuna sandwich.”

“The New Sydney Aquarium was thrilled about those fish, though,” Jon reflects. “Apparently they were rare.”

“The point is,” Gabe resumes, “I want to know everything there is to know about that squid.” He looks at Brendon expectantly. Brendon feels like perhaps he’s supposed to wave a wand and pull a rabbit out of a hat.

“I’m a marine mammologist,” he says finally. “That’s a cephalopod. I could probably tell you species if I had a reference database, but that’s about it.”

“You’re the head of the science team,” Gabe says, frowning.

Brendon spreads his hands helplessly. “Mammologist. Mammals. Cetaceans.”

“I don’t know what any of that means,” Gabe says.

“Don’t look at me,” Jon says immediately. “I’m marine hydroponics.”

“You’re probably going to need a specialist,” Vicky remarks, coming down the ladder to join them in the torpedo bay. “We don’t have anyone on staff who studies cephalopods, and from the number of them you have swarming around out there, I’m guessing you want a professional opinion.”

“California,” someone says from above them, and Brendon looks up to see William peering over the railing. “I came to have a look; someone told me it wasn’t an octopus after all. It looks like one, though, doesn’t it?”

“Not really,” Brendon says honestly.

“What do you mean, California?” Gabe asks, raising a hand to help William jump down from the ladder. Brendon doesn’t miss the way Vicky rolls her eyes, but he thinks Gabe would have helped her, too, so she shouldn’t be that upset. Gabe loves Vicky.

“We’re going there. I saw surfers,” William explains, leaning warily over the side of the torpedo tube. “Really, that doesn’t look like an octopus to you?”

“We could be going to Hawai’i,” Gabe suggests, looking down at the squid, which isn’t doing a lot at the moment beyond letting one arm drift lazily near the surface.

William shakes his head. “I see hula girls when we visit Hawai’i. What’s that thing on its tentacle?”

“They’re called arms,” Brendon corrects automatically, already leaning closer to look.

Gabe eyes him skeptically. “I thought you didn’t know anything about squid?”

“I don’t,” Brendon says immediately. “Hey Jon, Jon, hand me that pipe thing.”

He nudges William out of the way when he sticks the pipe in, keeping his hand carefully out of reach. It takes a couple of tries, but eventually the squid wraps the arm in question around the pipe securely enough for Brendon to ease it out of the water. He squints at it for a moment, perplexed.

“What is it?” Jon asks, close to his ear.

“It’s a tag,” Brendon says, turning the pipe slightly to show him. “A marker. Hey, so. Does the name Clandestine mean anything to anyone?”

-

The Beatles sound different underwater. Brendon holds his breath for as long as he can, trying to identify the strain of melody woven through the instrumentals.

When he surfaces, the song booms loud and clear from the speaker Brendon wheedled Ryan into mounting over the poolside lab station. He’d claimed it would assist in research if they knew what Dylan was listening to so they could monitor his responses, and whether Dylan registered the change in and out of the water.

In truth, he really just wants to spend a few hours singing along.

“With a little help from my friends…” joins the chorus from behind him, and Brendon twists to see Jon and Butcher with their arms around each other, stumbling through the doorway performing karaoke into an invisible microphone.

“How does it sound?” Jon asks, stripping off his t-shirt and zipping up the front of his wetsuit.

“Better out of the water. I don’t know if Ryan did it right.” Brendon leans back, drifting a little. “Maybe it’s just set for dolphin ears.”

Butcher slides into the water like he belongs there, leaving barely a ripple in his wake. He swims a few feet out and treads water, taking a deep breath before going under.

Jon flops into the moon pool the same way Brendon does, with a crash-splash that sends water slopping up over the sides and choppy waves through the tank, sending a signal to wherever Dylan is on the boat that there’s someone in the water.

Jon tilts his head until one ear is resting flat against the surface of the water, listening to both speakers. Brendon is impressed; this is why Jon is always handy to have around.

“I think it might need some tweaking,” Jon says finally, lifting his head. “Right now it sounds more like there’s a party going on in the neighbor’s backyard.”

“Distortion,” Brendon agrees wisely, just as Butcher surfaces noisily a few feet away.

“Have Ryan fuck with the bass,” Butcher advises. “And try some different albums. You might get better quality with a string quartet.”

“I was trying to start with the classics,” Brendon explains. “Give him a feel for modern music.”

“The Rolling Stones,” Jon says.

“Blink 182,” Brendon says.

“I’ll bring down some Alicia,” Butcher offers. He backstrokes out a bit further, then stops as Dylan’s dorsal fin breaks the surface of the water, gliding in until Butcher can hold on and allow himself to be pulled along.

“Hey, no fair,” Jon complains, sinking in up to his neck. “I want dolphin rides.”

“I want Jon rides,” Brendon announces, throwing his arms around Jon’s neck when he laughs.

“It’s a good thing you’re so light,” Jon says, wading around the edge of the moon pool. “I’m only here on entertainment duty, technically I should be the one getting towed around.”

Brendon doesn’t ask whether Jon is here for Dylan-entertainment or Brendon-entertainment. He suspects the answer would be somewhere in the middle.

“You can ride me later,” he lies, wrapping his legs around Jon’s waist to cling tighter as Jon pushes deeper into the water. “Take me for a swim first.”

The sound of a throat clearing catches both of their attentions, and Brendon hastily lets go as Jon flounders suddenly.

Spencer crosses his arms, and looks for a moment as if he doesn’t know what to say. “Ryan sent me to ask how it’s working,” he says finally, with a distinctly unhappy expression.

Brendon tries to answer and realizes he’s too far out to get his feet on solid ground. Jon catches his elbow a second later, one arm around Dylan’s floaty-ball and the other hooking around Brendon so that he doesn’t have to keep treading water.

“Butcher said maybe something different with the bass?” Brendon suggests hopefully. It’s taking a lot of effort not to twitch; Jon’s arm is wrapped solid and steadying across his chest, and Spencer is burning a hole through Brendon’s wetsuit with his eyes.

Spencer shifts his weight to the other side. “Something different,” he says eventually. “Right.”

“Only if he has time,” Brendon adds hastily. “This is great, really. Thank you. Him. Thanks to him.”

Spencer’s expression doesn’t even flicker. “Right,” he says again, and then turns around and walks out. Brendon tries not to wince.

Jon starts towing them both back towards the edge of the pool. Brendon drops his head back onto Jon’s shoulder and exhales heavily. “Fuck.”

-

 _Monterey Bay, California_

“I don’t know what to wear to meet this kooky squid guy,” Gabe complains.

“Hey man, that’s what I’m here for,” Travis replies. “The dispensing of advice pertaining to captainly matters.”

Gabe gives him a skeptical look. “You sunk your fucking boat,” he points out. He doesn’t consider that too harsh; Travis always agrees with him, usually shaking his head regretfully at the follies of his youth.

After his untimely death, Captain McCoy’s knowledge and experience had been transferred into a computer program designed to give aid to future captains when needed. He’s meant to offer opinions and serve as an ethical conscience, although a lot of his personality came through along with the technical stuff, so most of the time Gabe just hangs out with him, shooting the shit and discussing the soap opera dramas of his crew. Every once in a while, though, usually when Gabe is in a jam, he makes a good sounding board.

Gabe feels guilty turning Travis off, so he mostly just leaves him running. He never knows when William is going to drop by, anyway. William knows how to run Travis’ program, but Gabe likes to have him up anyway, just to make the place more alluring.

Speaking of William. “Why do you think he’s kooky?” comes from the hatch behind him, and Gabe zips up his uniform jacket just as William slides his hand through Travis – their version of a greeting – and drops onto Gabe’s bunk. “Is it because of the hair?”

“The what?” Gabe asks, confused. “It’s because he spends his life studying squid. No one who chooses to do that can be normal. That’s even worse than studying dolphins or whatever shit Urie does.” He pauses, trying to remember if the UEO had sent any sort of personnel dossier on their pet specialist. “Why, does he have kooky hair?”

“It’s kind of…” William explains, gesturing around his head vaguely. Since William’s hair isn’t exactly regulation by any means, Gabe has to bite his tongue to keep from making a joke about definitions of kookiness.

“Is he like a mad scientist?” Travis asks, sounding interested.

William shakes his head. “He just doesn’t really like water, he’s afraid of drowning. His brother is worse, though. They nearly died once, on a boat.”

Gabe pauses in the middle of combing through his hair. “He does realize he’s coming on a submarine, right?” he asks. “Underwater in the middle of the ocean?”

“Yeah,” William says distractedly. “He’s not too happy about it.”

“You got anything more for me on that squid?” Gabe asks. Sometimes when William is off doing his psychic things, he knows more than when you ask him at other times.

“A cow?” William says, sounding confused even as he says it, brow furrowed. They all wait for a minute, and then he shrugs a little and says, “That’s all I’ve got. A cow. Maybe.”

“A squid-cow,” Gabe says, trying it out. He looks at Travis, but only gets another shrug in reply. “Okay. I’ll keep that in mind. Hey, are you coming to meet the delegation?”

“Maybe,” William replies. “I have something to do first.” He gets up and does the hand-thing with Travis again, trying to touch even though there’s nothing but particles of light and air.

“Wait, was that it?” Gabe asks. “You just came by to tell me that kooky squid guy has kooky hair?”

William frowns for a second. “No, I came by to tell you…oh, not to wear your white dress uniform.”

“No?” Gabe says, turning to face the mirror and frowning. “I couldn’t decide.”

“Don’t wear it,” William repeats, and then pauses halfway out the door to smile. “You look good in it, though.”

“Yeah?” Gabe says, grinning back at him. William just smiles wider and ducks out.

“You’re going to wear it now, aren’t you?” Travis asks wisely.

“Of course not,” Gabe scoffs, and then checks his reflection one more time. He really does look good in white.

“Captain, we’re approaching Monterey Harbor,” Ryland’s voice announces from the speakers. “Your presence is requested on the bridge.”

-

“What the fuck?” Gabe asks, mostly rhetorically.

Smith bangs his station in frustration. “I can’t get any readings, they’re all over the WSKRS. And the sensor array, too.”

Alex peers up at the screen and the dozens of fleshy bodies pressed up against the camera. “That is a fucking lot of squid,” he comments.

“We can’t get the docking hatch open,” Ryland reports. “They’re all over it. Same for the Sea Crabs in the launch bay.”

“And I thought we had a lot of them down in Antarctica,” Gabe says, whistling as Spencer patches through the WSKRS views, one at a time, with the same results.

“Captain, I have a call for you from the harbor,” Ross says suddenly. “It’s the science team.”

“Oh hey, I definitely want to talk to them,” Gabe answers. “Big screen, take away some of the freaky squids.”

“ _Squid,_ ” Ross emphasizes dourly, but he patches the call through anyway.

There’s a guy with crazy hair leaning far too close to the camera and smiling so wide it almost takes up the entire screen. “Hi,” he says in a weirdly nasal voice, and waves for good measure. “Welcome to Monterey Bay.”

“Thanks,” Gabe replies. “Dr. Way?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” their contact says. “Could be Mikey too, but he won’t go to grad school. He could, though, he’s fuckin’ brilliant. Hey, he’s coming aboard with me, that’s okay, right? I have two other people on my team. Did they tell you?”

“That’s fine,” Gabe says, because he can’t remember whether they told him or not, but it’s not as if the boat isn’t big enough to hold two more. “We might have a little problem getting you aboard, though. Your squid are very friendly.”

“Oh yeah, they love the light, and you’re right in the middle of a seasonal mass migration. Just turn off your lights for a while, they should lose interest. Can you do that?”

“We should be able to do that,” Gabe allows, signaling to Ryland. He hears the all-hands announcement faintly echoing over the com, and then the bridge goes black.

He hears Smith sigh in relief before he even gets the report. “They’re backing off. Launch bay is clear. Docking hatch clearing now.”

“Let’s get the bio-geeks aboard before they change their mind,” Gabe orders, crooking a finger at Alex.

“Ha,” Dr. Way snorts from the screen, a little surprised cough of a laugh. “Bio-geeks. That’s funny.”

-

“Ow,” Bob complains when Frank launches himself onto Bob’s back. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m keeping you sharp,” Frank explains, stealing Bob’s awesome Security Chief hat and putting it on his own head, keeping his other arm locked tight around Bob’s throat to keep from slipping down. “In tip-top Security Chief shape.”

“I’m already in shape,” Bob says, but he hitches Frank up higher, so it doesn’t even really count as an argument. “And I’m working.”

“Where are we going?” Frank asks, tugging the brim of the hat back so he can see.

“You’re going back to the galley,” Bob says, although he keeps walking in the opposite direction, so again, it’s not much of a threat. “I’m going to meet and escort the new science team.”

“We have a new science team?” Frank asks, interested. He doesn’t get to learn a lot beyond general scuttlebutt, working in the galley. That’s part of why he hangs out with Bob.

“Some specialists,” Bob answers, not especially helpfully. “They’re going back to Antarctica with us.”

“We’re going back to Antarctica?” Frank says. “Man, that sucks. There’s nothing to eat in Antarctica. I always have to cook stuff from the hydroponics bay, and no one eats that shit if they can help it.”

“Everything you cook tastes the same anyway,” Bob says, which is an absolute lie. Frank kicks him in protest for the slander.

“I made amazing grilled mushrooms last week,” Frank says triumphantly. They were from the hydroponics bay, actually. Whatever. It’s not like Bob knows.

“You could cook some steak once in a while,” Bob says, only grunting a little from the kick. Bob knows how Frank feels about steak, so he kicks harder this time.

“Steak is restricted,” Frank points out, swinging his legs with every step.

“Ow. Stop it,” Bob says. “And stop burning everything, maybe then it would taste better.”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” Frank reminds him. “I could leave you right now.”

“Be my guest,” Bob replies. Frank huffs and stops kicking, because he’s enjoying the ride.

“Bob,” he says. “Bob. Have you decided to hook up with me yet?”

“No,” Bob answers bluntly. “And stop asking.”

“We’re meant to be,” Frank argues. It’s a persuasive argument. “I have my heart set on you. Bob. You’re the one for me. It’s written in the sea. Ow, hey.”

Bob tugs his jacket back down, impervious to Frank’s scowl at being brusquely deposited in the middle of the corridor. “I have to go get the science people,” he says. “You know how they are.”

Bob is of the impression that science people couldn’t survive on their own if their lives depended on it. Frank thinks his opinion has probably been formed largely by prolonged exposure to Dr. Urie.

“Yeah, I should get back,” he admits. “See you around.”

Bob nods and starts off down the corridor again. Not, however, before relieving Frank of his hat.

-

There are three people Frank doesn’t know wandering around in the galley. Since he lives on a submarine and everyone has to come through his territory at least twice every day for meals, this is something of an unusual occurrence.

“Oh hey,” one of the guys says when he sees Frank. “Do you know where the torpedo tubes are?”

Thanks to Bob, Frank is much less alarmed by this statement than he would otherwise be. “You must be the new science team,” he says, holding out his hand. “Bob’s looking for you. I’m Frank.”

“Cool ink,” the same guy says. He’s around the same height as Frank, with flyaway dark hair and a pale, round face. “I’m Gerard. I think we met Bob, actually. He told us to sit tight, but, uh, Mikey had to go to the bathroom, so we kind of got lost.”

“It’s all the water,” one of the other guys complains, hunched over with his toes turned in so far his knees are practically knocking. “It’s everywhere, I can’t help it.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much a big thing around here,” Frank says. The main tank has tunnels running through the bulkheads on nearly every deck so Dylan and the divers have access, and most of the decks have viewports, looking out into the ocean. No matter where you go, chances are that at least one of the walls will be blue.

“Are you part of the resident science contingent?” the third guy asks. He has a mop of red hair that Frank is instantly impressed by and more muscles than the other two combined. He doesn’t really look all that much like a scientist, in Frank’s opinion.

“No,” Frank answers, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’m, uh, the cook.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” Gerard says, with much less disappointment and condescension than Frank had honestly expected. It’s not that the scientists on board treat him badly, but Frank is well aware that he isn’t in the same league. A marine research scientist is a lot higher up on the food chain than a nutritionist.

“I’m starving, actually,” Ray admits, looking around as if anticipating that food will magically appear. “What’s for dinner?”

“Well, we seem to have an abundance of squid outside,” Frank jokes. “I was thinking about frying up some calamari.”

He doesn’t realize he’s said the wrong thing for a minute, because Gerard is so pale that it’s hard to tell when he goes _paler._ The look on Ray’s face gives it away, though. Mikey just looks resigned.

“Kidding,” Frank hastens to reassure them, raising both hands in apology. “Really. I’m…oh shit, you’re like, pro-squid people, aren’t you? I was totally joking, I didn’t mean it. I’m a vegan, honestly, the most I ever do is put all-vegetable seafood seasoning on tofu strips. It’s really good, actually, you should try it sometime. Um, the tofu, not the squid. Obviously.”

Gerard seems uncertain, so Frank adds his best earnest eyes and a hopeful smile until he caves.

“It’s just, squid are so intelligent,” Gerard says, with some pretty damn good earnest eyes of his own. Mikey sighs a little and shuffles around, like he’s getting ready to be here for a while. “They’re related to octopus, which have been known to not only solve problems, but to teach and learn from each other as well. They can figure out how to open a sealed jar just by watching another octopus in a neighboring tank.”

“That’s cool,” Frank says, because it is, really. Also because he’s still worried that Gerard thinks he’s some kind of monster squid-eater. “That’s really creative.”

“They have a huge capacity for learning,” Gerard continues, gesturing now to emphasize his points. “We can’t even begin to measure their creativity or adaptive capabilities. In some species…”

“Hey, Gee,” the guy with the awesome hair interrupts gently. “I think they’re probably going to be looking for us, and we shouldn’t leave Lugosi alone for too long.”

“Oh right,” Gerard agrees, thankfully distracted from his passionate lecture on the merits of squid and squid relatives. “Do you know how to get back to the science deck?”

“Turn right, end of the hallway, down one deck,” Frank answers promptly. “There’s a sign.”

“Cool, thanks,” Gerard says. “Hey, you should meet my squid sometime,” he offers suddenly, turning back to look at Frank. “You both have neat ink.”

“Thanks,” Frank says, because he’s fairly sure that was intended as a compliment, even if it was a weird one. “I’ll remember.”

“Bye,” Gerard says with a smile, wiggling his fingers. His pinkie sticks out a little, at an angle. Frank holds up his own hand before he even realizes he’s doing it.

“Thanks for the directions,” the other guy says. “Have a nice day.”

“No problem,” Frank answers. He watches as they leave, then calls Bob. He’s fairly sure they aren’t secretly stowaway bioterrorists, but, you know. It never hurts to be sure.

-

“Where are our scientists?” Gabe asks. There’s a large tank sitting in the middle of the area Dr. Urie usually reserves for experiments, and a small crowd of his people hanging out near the moon pool, but no sign of their visitors.

“They wandered off,” Ryland answers. “Bob’s getting them now.”

“Bob let a group of complete strangers wander off on a high-security submarine?” Gabe asks incredulously. Bob usually isn’t the kind of guy to let that happen.

“They were slippery,” Ryland explains. “And they docked in the wrong place. What is this thing?”

“It’s a vampire squid,” someone says from above them, and Gabe looks up to see Dr. Way and company descending the ladder to the science deck. Bob is close behind them, glowering and keeping all of them under watchful eye like he expects them to run off again if he blinks.

“Dr. Way,” Gabe says affably, making some attempt at military protocol. “Welcome aboard.”

“Thanks,” Dr. Way says. “I’m Gerard, by the way. This is Ray, he’s in charge of all the technical analysis stuff. Oh, and this is Mikey.”

Mikey blinks. Gabe grins at him, then shakes hands with Ray when Mikey just toes the floor and looks out over the moon pool.

“So what were you saying about the squid?” Gabe asks, gesturing to the tank.

Gerard brightens visibly. “Oh, right. This is Lugosi, he’s my vampire squid. You said there was some confusion at first about whether the species you found was a squid or an octopus. Vampire squid are more closely related to the octopus family than they are to any other species of squid. It’s the only known living member of its order, _Vampyroteuthis infernalis_. The vampire squid from hell.”

“Huh,” Gabe says, eyeing the tank with slightly more interest. A vampire squid from hell sounds kind of cool.

“You said you were near Antarctica, though, and vampire squid are only found in temperate, tropical waters. I thought maybe you found a new Vampyromorphida species.” Gerard looks giddy at the prospect. Gabe almost feels disappointed letting him down.

“Actually,” he admits, “I’m pretty sure William just didn’t know the difference between a squid and an octopus.”

“Hey,” William objects from where he’s lurking near the tank, communing with Gerard’s pet squid. Gabe is starting to wonder whether he should be worried about William’s newfound fascination with things that have eight legs and tentacles.

“I just think they’re cool,” William says, shrugging one bony shoulder.

“Stop reading my mind,” Gabe says immediately. “You owe me a drink now.”

“I can’t help it,” William replies absently, leaning down until he’s eye-level with the tank. “You’re thinking too loud.”

Gabe supposes neither of them can really be blamed for that. And he knows William picks up on shit at the most random times, so it’s not like he isn’t used to it anyway. It’s why he tries never to let himself spend too long blatantly checking out William’s ass. It’s hard, though, especially when he bends over to look at things in tanks. Gabe notices a lot, obviously, but he tries not to actively _think_ about it, because…

He drags his eyes up just in time to see William smile slowly, and changes the subject hastily, cursing himself so thoroughly that he’s sure parapsychologists in China probably pick up on it.

“So this thing is like, half-octopus and half-squid?” he asks, heading over to the tank. The thing has fucking unsettling eyes, bright red and dramatic against its black skin.

“Not exactly,” Gerard says, obviously happy to talk about his pet. “He’s a cephalopod, but…”

Gabe realizes he should have thought better of poking at the thing in the tank when it suddenly lets loose a stream of glowing gook, squirting some over the edge of the tank and all over the front of Gabe’s white dress uniform.

He can’t look at William, so he settles for saying, “Shit.”

“Sorry,” Gerard says apologetically, looking genuinely abashed. “It’s a natural defense mechanism. Squid and octopus species release ink to confuse their predators, and also their prey, so they can sneak up behind it while it’s disoriented. Vampire squid lack ink sacs, so they release bioluminescent mucus instead.” His eyes have that funny, excited gleam in them that Gabe recognizes warily from when Brendon gets rolling on dolphins. “Loligo squid create a cloud of ink, stun their prey with nerve venom to paralyze it, and then bite off its head.” He smiles. “It’s amazing, really.”

“Yeah,” Gabe agrees, drawing it out to convey something between agreement and sarcasm. He’s not sure which one is more appropriate, really.

“We should change the water in the tank,” Mikey says suddenly. All of them startle at the same time, so Gabe’s fairly certain he’s not the only one who forgot Mikey was standing right there.

“Right,” Gabe agrees. “You go do that, and I’m just going to change. If you’d care to get settled in tonight, I can have someone show you to the galley and your guest quarters. There’s no rush; our people can show you the mystery squid whenever you’re ready.”

William is suddenly watching Mikey with keen interest. Gabe tries not to dwell on it. William is sometimes keenly interested in things for completely bizarre reasons, and Gabe has other things to deal with. His chest is covered in hundreds of tiny shining blue specks amidst the rest of the weird glowing shit, and it’s wet and gross. He’s wearing squid snot.

He gets a lot of funny looks on the way back to his quarters, but he supposes he’d stare as well. At least they don’t snicker until he’s out of earshot.

Travis doesn’t give him the same courtesy.

“Don’t say it,” Gabe warns, stripping off his disgusting uniform jacket and pitching it straight into the garbage chute.

Travis grins, wide and white. “Man, I wasn’t going to say a thing.”

-

William shows up in the middle of executive officers’ poker night, which isn’t all that unusual, except that it’s not his night. Gabe had offered, but William had declined, saying he wanted to get sleep, so they’d brought in Ross as their fourth instead. He’s holding his own so far, mostly by virtue of having the best poker face Gabe has ever seen.

William is wearing a loose t-shirt and soft, low-slung pants, which is nice but somewhat distracting. His hair is also a complete mess and it’s nearing two in the morning, so Gabe’s guessing the ‘sleep’ part of his plans didn’t go so well.

“What’s up?” Gabe asks, tilting his cards down because Ryland is on his right, and Ryland is a sneaky poker-playing bastard.

“I need to talk to you,” William says, trying to push his hair back and getting caught on a tangle. He tugs ineffectually at it for a few seconds, looking confused as to how it got there.

“Sure thing,” Gabe agrees easily. He surveys his cards, mentally tallies the amount in the pot, and adds, “Right after this hand.”

“Now,” William contradicts, finally giving up on the bird’s nest caught in his hair. “You’re going to lose anyway.”

Gabe narrows his eyes across the table. “Blackinton’s got nothing.”

William says, “Ross.”

All three of them turn to stare at Ross, who goes slowly pink. “See if you get invited to the executive officers’ game anymore, Ross,” Gabe warns, dropping his cards and pushing back from the table. He leads William out into the corridor with a hand at his elbow, and as soon as the door is shut he says, “Ross, really?”

William tugs at his hair again, distracted. “No,” he says absently. “I just felt bad about making you lose to Ryland. Don’t worry, he folded.”

Once again, Gabe feels a swell of admiration for William’s hidden genius streak of evil. “You should play with us more often,” he says honestly. William’s occasional flashes of insight tend to cancel out against his sheer atrociousness at card playing of any sort, so it’s always more or less a fair game.

“I wanted to sleep,” William says, expression somewhere between plaintive and cranky. “But then I had a vision. While I was asleep.”

“Yeah?” Gabe asks, interested. From what he understands, William generally has to be conscious and aware in order to have any control over his psi factor. It makes sense that an unconscious mind would be more receptive or whatever, but this is the first time William’s come to him in the middle of the night.

“It was Alice in Wonderland,” William says seriously. “Except you were Alice. Which really means the boat, because you represent the boat.”

“Was I wearing a cute dress?” Gabe jokes. He’s not sure he’s crazy about the fact that William apparently only dreams about him as a figurehead for his submarine, and then as a blonde chick from a kids’ movie. He could think of a lot more exciting dreams featuring himself than that.

“You fell down the rabbit hole,” William says. “Which should have been more ominous, I should have felt danger. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“Alice found Wonderland when she fell down the rabbit hole,” Gabe points out. “Maybe I’m heading for something magical and exciting. Plus, she found those mushrooms. I saw the movie.”

“I read the book,” William says, frowning slightly. “It’s a political satire commenting on the state of England at the time. It’s not about mushrooms.”

“Hey, hey,” Gabe soothes, because William is agitated now, yanking at his hair in fierce, quick tugs. He steps forward and wraps his arms loosely around William, pulling his hand away before he causes any permanent damage. This probably violates the military code of conduct, but William’s the counselor, so he’d know best and can object if he feels like it.

He doesn’t, just slumps forward and drops his head onto Gabe’s shoulder. “I hate seeing things when I’m asleep,” he mumbles, barely intelligible. “I like dreaming because I know it doesn’t _mean_ anything.”

“Hey,” Gabe says again, rubbing William’s back a little in small circles. “I’ll think about it, okay? I’ll watch out for rabbit holes. Why don’t you come in and hang out with us for a while?”

William shakes his head, pulling back so Gabe has to reluctantly drop his arms. “I’m going to try to go back to sleep,” he says, and when he rubs at his cheek, he looks fucking tired. “I’ll tell you if I see anything else.”

“Yeah, okay,” Gabe agrees immediately. “You know you can come to me with anything, right? Anytime.”

“Yeah,” William says, and a faint smile flickers over his face. “Thanks.”

-

 _South Pacific Ocean_

“Dr. Urie,” Dr. Way says, smiling. It’s early enough in the morning that it takes a second for Brendon to figure out who he means.

“Oh hey,” he says, hands catching in the deep pockets of his lab coat when he fumbles to pull them out. “Brendon is fine. We’re pretty informal down here on the science deck.”

“Gerard,” Dr. Way agrees, skipping the handshake to go for a friendly arm squeeze. “I haven’t seen any autopsy reports, so I assume you were waiting for me to get here?”

“Oh,” Brendon says, stumbling a little. “We, um, I…don’t really like doing them. The killing part, I mean. It seems cruel.”

Gerard looks surprised. “It’s not dead?”

“It was swimming around the last time I saw it,” Brendon promises. “We’re keeping it in a torpedo tube.”

“I knew that part,” Gerard says. “I just assumed it was because you had it laid out or preserved or something.”

“No,” Brendon says, with a quick guilty glance in the direction of the moon pool. “I just didn’t want it to eat Dylan.”

Gerard and Dylan had become fast friends the previous evening, after Lugosi’s water had been changed out. He and Brendon exchange an understanding glance concerning the difficulties of keeping a dolphin and a carnivorous cephalopod in the same tank.

Brendon gestures in the direction of the corridor that will eventually lead them to the torpedo bay, but Gerard stops after only a few steps. “If it’s still alive,” he says, “We’re gonna need Ray.”

It’s convenient that Gerard travels with someone who kills things for him so he doesn’t have to do it himself. Brendon has Jon to do a lot of the stuff he doesn’t want to do himself, but luckily he doesn’t often have to do any killing. He’s fine with dissections once whatever it is has stopped breathing, but he can’t stand to be the one ending life, even in the name of science. Maybe especially in the name of science.

“How do you…? Oh, right, got it. Ray,” Gerard says loudly into the com speaker. “We need the scanner thing.”

“On my way,” the speaker acknowledges in Ray’s high-pitched voice. “Anything else?”

“No. Meet us in the torpedo bay, okay? We’re going down to take a look.” Gerard stops holding down the button and turns back to Brendon. “Right, we’re good. Lead the way.”

Brendon still gets lost sometimes on this boat, especially when his destination involves non-scientific things like engine rooms and torpedo bays. Luckily he’s been down here every day to check on their newest arrival, so he’s more confident of his direction than he would have been the week before.

“It’s cool that you managed to keep it alive,” Gerard comments as they walk. “From what I understand, it’s pretty big. It’s hard to capture them without causing serious injury.”

“Alex chased it with a robot,” Brendon explains. “He has a probe-thing.”

“That’s cool,” Gerard says. “Oh hey, Ray. You brought the scanner? Where’s Mikey?”

“Hiding from the parapsychologist,” Ray announces. His hair is still just as awesome as it had been yesterday. Brendon is impressed; he was half-convinced that he’d exaggerated it in his mind. “I think he went to go get breakfast.”

“William’s not that bad,” Brendon assures them. New people always get a little creeped out around William, but the worst he ever does, usually, is reply to things they haven’t said out loud and warn them not to eat the vegan crab cakes, much to Frank’s vocal dismay.

“Mikey kept dreaming about him,” Gerard explains, scratching behind his ear. “I think he’s a little wigged.”

Brendon blinks, but before he has a chance to respond, Ray says, “Hey, I’m going to need some help with this. I can set it up on my own, but integrating it into new systems is always kind of a bitch. The sensors don’t tend to like it.”

“Oh,” Brendon says, bewilderment over the technical jargon dissipating at the word ‘sensors’. “I’ll call Spencer.”

-

Spencer does not seem especially happy to have been called. “You know this isn’t my job, right?” he asks, hips cocked at an angle that Brendon is used to seeing whenever Jon is around. “Any engineer could do this. Call Ivarsson.”

“But you’re the best,” Brendon insists, widening his eyes just enough to communicate ‘earnest’ without Spencer catching him on it. “You’re the Sensor _Chief_.”

“I’m not…” Spencer begins, but the power of the eyes compels him, obviously, because he gives up and waves a hand even before Brendon has to resort to a slight – very slight – protrusion of his lower lip. “Fine. Whatever. Hand me that cable.”

“The _best,_ ” Brendon reiterates, already looking for cables.

“So what does this thing do?” Spencer asks, nodding his head slightly towards the stack of boxes Ray has set out on the deck.

“It’s like an x-ray,” Ray explains, hair bobbing enthusiastic agreement as he hooks things up. “For things that can’t usually be x-rayed. It records the relative density of biological material.”

“It’s really cool,” Gerard puts in. He’s busy at the torpedo tube, fishing around with what Brendon refers to as the ‘squid stick.’ “It tells me a lot about how healthy they are, and whether they have any unusual markers for their species.”

“Do you know what species it is?” Brendon asks, abandoning Spencer and his cables to join Gerard at the side of the makeshift tank.

“ _Alluroteuthis antarcticus_ ,” Gerard answers. He has the squid interested in the stick now, somehow, probably a result of whatever the sticky-looking orange stuff is that he’s dabbed onto the end of it. “Possibly a juvenile, since…that’s it, open up…see the tooth? On larger individuals, that would be a hook. It’s hard to tell between the juveniles and sub-adults, though. The tentacle structure doesn’t really change.”

Brendon watches the squid clamp down on the end of the stick and wraps his arms around himself without thinking. “Nice. Hook.”

“This little beauty is the only known member of its genus,” Gerard says, towing the squid along slowly towards the scanner. “And should probably be considered _Parateuthis tunicate,_ but there’s no conclusive proof. There you go, into the nice cave.”

Ray’s console lights up, which successfully distracts Brendon from the squid. There are pictures on the monitor, bright colors and swirls, and some of the lights are blinking. “Does this work on jellyfish?” he asks curiously, studying the sharp contrasts in color where he can’t see any real physical difference at all.

“Yes, but not as well,” Ray answers. His finger hovers over the largest button on the console, and then he taps it a few times, slowly, each keystroke resulting in a flash and frozen image on the screen.

“That’s interesting,” Gerard comments in Brendon’s ear, making him jump slightly. “You said that tag was already on when you found it, right?”

“Yeah,” Brendon answers. “Why?”

“Because if I didn’t know better, I’d say this specimen was domesticated,” Gerard explains. He nudges Ray out of the way, leaning in to look closer at the images as he clicks through them. “Look at the body fat ratio. And there are no marks or old scars from predators; these arms haven’t regenerated at all as far as I can tell. Can you go see if you can get that tag off for me?”

Brendon eyes the tube dubiously, but commandeers the squid stick and mentally rolls up his sleeves. “Here, squid,” he calls softly, trying not to think about the hook and all that stuff Gerard said about squid liking to bite the heads off of things.

He thinks he’s almost got it, braced against the wall of the tube and leaning somewhat precariously over the edge, when he feels something wet slither over the edge of his hand. He drops the stick with a shout and loses his balance, windmilling for a second over the water before he falls.

It takes him a few panicked seconds to realize that the reason he’s enveloped isn’t because he’s being eaten alive by a giant squid, but because Spencer’s caught him around the waist and is holding him tight to keep him upright until Brendon stops flailing.

“Okay?” Spencer asks after a few more seconds.

“Yeah,” Brendon replies as confidently as possible, although it’s entirely likely that Spencer can feel the way his heart is racing and the fact that he isn’t quite breathing normally yet. He’d really prefer not to go anywhere for a bit; Spencer has really strong, squid-repellent arms. “Um.”

“Brendon,” a familiar voice says behind them, and Spencer and Brendon both turn at the same time, an odd squeeze-twist that just seems to tangle them closer together instead of separating them.

Jon is standing at the top of the ladder leading down to the bay, arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a sour expression that probably has something to do with the fact that Brendon has yet to remove himself from Spencer’s unintentional embrace.

“Um,” Brendon says again.

“I’m supposed to tell you that you’re wanted on the science deck.” Jon pauses, and then when no one moves, adds, “Now.”

“Right,” Brendon says. “I’ll just…”

He tries to straighten up, but instead of pulling away, Spencer’s arms tighten, keeping him where he is. Brendon half-twists, confused, and sees Spencer engaged in a staring contest with Jon across the torpedo bay. Spencer’s eyes narrow just as his hand flattens across Brendon’s stomach, right above the waistband of his pants, and Jon’s lips thin.

“Um,” Brendon says yet again, and then sighs as Jon turns and stomps out. “Oh.”

-

“Frank,” Alex says cheerfully, pushing his glasses up onto his nose with one finger while the others keep a tight but wobbly hold on his coffee cup. “How did the tofu scramble turn out?”

“Try it and see,” Frank offers, lifting the lid off of the pan. There’s still some left, even with the early-morning crowd thinning as they head to their stations. The graveyard shift will be in soon for dinner.

Alex samples a little bit of everything, as usual, and clucks his tongue over the lack of anything resembling a sausage – also as usual. “They make soy sausage, you know,” he points out, mixing Tabasco sauce into his tofu scramble.

“Fake meat defeats the purpose of not eating meat,” Frank points out.

“Not all of us are voluntary vegans,” Alex counters, and then closes his eyes and hums appreciation for the first bite. “Mmm. Yeah. This is. Mmm.”

Alex is the only member of the crew who actually seems to care about food beyond what there is to eat and when. He and Frank sometimes trade recipes.

“I’ll keep it,” Frank agrees, and then gets distracted by the person coming down the line. “Bob, hey. Do you want to sleep with me yet?”

“I haven’t had my coffee yet, Iero,” Bob warns. He looks particularly menacing in the mornings, but Frank has always been immune. It’s one of many signs that they’re obviously made for each other.

“It’s okay, I can wait,” Frank assures him. Bob just grunts.

Frank waits until he’s swallowed the first sip before asking, “Tonight? I think it will be magical.”

Bob actually growls. Frank heaps an enormous spoonful of tofu scramble onto his plate and adds a muffin for good measure. Nothing says love like muffins.

“Bob,” Frank tries again, but there’s someone else standing in front of him waiting to be served, and they’re unfamiliar enough to give him pause. “Oh, hey. Mikey, right? The squid dude.”

Mikey blinks at him a few times but seems to decide he’s harmless. “That’s my brother,” he says. “I’m the assistant squid dude.”

“Oh, cool. I saw the guy with the hair in here earlier. Ray, right? What will it be? We have tofu scramble, toast and some nut spreads, muffins, and some green things that Walker claims are asparagus. I wouldn’t take his word for it, but I put a fuckload of seasoning on them, so you’re probably okay.”

Mikey blinks again. Frank is about to start serving him some of everything when William sidles up and smiles at both of them. “Hi,” he says to Frank, and then turns his attention to Mikey. “Are we playing hide and go seek?”

Mikey looks spooked and cornered. Frank is impressed; even William doesn’t usually work that fast. Most people only get that look when they’ve been forced into a counseling session.

“Usually avoiding me works better when you’re not thinking about it,” William explains. “Otherwise it’s like you’re standing in a room yelling, ‘Please don’t find me!’ and it’s kind of hard not to notice. Or hiding behind me and tapping me on the shoulder at the same time.”

Mikey clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I guess so. I don’t know how that all works.”

“I see a lot of blue,” William says thoughtfully. He helps himself to a muffin and starts peeling back the paper, picking it free with his fingernails. “Sometimes other stuff, but mostly blue.”

“What does blue mean?” Mikey asks, looking as if he almost doesn’t want to know. “Like, sadness? Calm?”

William pauses mid-muffin-denuding and stares at him. “We’re in the middle of the ocean,” he says slowly.

Frank is seized by a sudden coughing fit and has to turn away so as not to be unsanitary near the food. When he finally gets control of himself again, William is staring thoughtfully at Mikey.

“Why, what do you usually see?” William asks, and Frank freezes in surprises. Mikey’s hunted look suddenly makes a lot more sense, and also multiplies by ten.

“Nothing,” he says, hunching over his plate. There’s still nothing on it; Frank hastily gives him some tofu out of pity.

“Hmm,” William comments. He steals another muffin and links his elbow through Mikey’s. “We should talk. Maybe I can help you explore your psychic potential.”

Mikey’s expression clears slightly into disbelieving. “Does that line ever actually work?” he asks.

“Yes,” William says. “I don’t want to talk about it. Come on, this way. Breakfast awaits.”

Mikey throws one last pleading look at Frank even as he’s towed off. Frank smiles and waves at him with the spatula.

-

Frank skulks around outside the science deck for a good fifteen minutes before he finally decides to go down. Brendon hadn’t shown up for breakfast or lunch, which isn’t all that unusual for him when he’s working on a project – usually Jon or someone takes him a tray – but the new squid guy hadn’t shown up either. Ray and Mikey had made it to both meals, but not Gerard. Frank’s only human; he’s curious.

He comes bearing a tray loaded with delicious and nutritious delicacies, so it’s not like they’ll throw him out. He doesn’t think Brendon would ever actually throw anyone out, anyway, but it never hurts to be prepared. He even has Swedish fish. Let it not be said that he doesn’t know his crew’s weaknesses.

He finds Brendon first and rocks on his toes for a few seconds before Brendon finally looks up and says, “Oh, Frank, hi. Is it lunch time already?”

“It’s dinner time,” Frank corrects, offering the tray. “You missed lunch.”

“Oh, really? Thanks. Hey, Swedish fish, awesome.” As per usual, Brendon completely forgoes the actual balanced meal Frank has prepared and goes straight for the sugar. He’s probably running low on caffeine, too; he seems to be vibrating a little less than usual.

“I just wanted to check in, since I didn’t see you,” Frank says casually. “I figured you and the squid guy were working late.”

“Gerard?” Brendon asks, already in the process of demolishing the fish. “Yeah, he’s around, we’re doing some tests and stuff.”

“Cool,” Frank says, and bounces on his toes some more. He tries to calculate exactly how long he can hang around without Brendon getting suspicious, and very subtly cranes his neck to peek around and see if he can catch a glimpse of Gerard.

Frank is uber-stealthy, but Brendon is sharper than they usually give him credit for. “We should go find him,” Brendon says, with a look that’s a shade too knowing for Frank’s peace of mind. But then…it’s Brendon. Frank doesn’t think he would ever use his knowledge for evil, unless perhaps it involved Ryan Ross. “He’ll be hungry too, and you probably haven’t been introduced properly.”

“I met him last night,” Frank says with a shrug, but Brendon is already heading across the deck, finishing the last of the Swedish fish in record time.

“Dr. Way,” Brendon calls, professional demeanor suddenly in place, swirling around him like the lab coat in spite of the fact that he’s still chewing gummy candy. “I’d like you to meet Dr. Iero. He’s the onboard nutritionist, and also our chef. He’s the only person I know who can make even seaweed spicy and exciting.”

Brendon tips him a wink after this. Frank doesn’t think Gerard notices, but it still makes him want to bang his head against a wall.

“Hi,” Gerard says, holding out his hand and smiling. He still has something of the mad scientist look going on, but it’s more of a mild-mannered, polite mad scientist. “Frank, right? We met last night; I remember your tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Frank says, grinning. “You offered to introduce me to your pet squid.”

Gerard looks briefly startled, then lights up a little. “You haven’t met Lugosi. He’s over here, although I don’t know how social he’s feeling…oh hey, are those little pizzas?”

“Bruschetta,” Frank corrects, but doesn’t mind all that much when Gerard stacks his to make a mini-pizza and crunches a bite. Personally, Frank thinks that’s the best way to eat bruschetta, no matter what Alex says.

“Mmmphnngh,” Gerard approves, waving the bruschetta and creating a minor shower of crumbs. “He might be hiding right now. Squid have the ability to change the color and texture of their bodies in order to camouflage themselves.”

“Awesome,” Frank replies. “How’s it going with the one we fished out off of Antarctica?”

Brendon looks as if he’s not certain they should go spreading results around yet, but Gerard clearly has no such compunctions. “We think it’s domesticated,” he says, earnestness overwhelming the ridiculousness of that statement. “It’s well-fed, and the tag could be a brand, like they used to use for livestock. It’s also much milder than most of its species. _Alluroteuthis antarcticus_ aren’t as vicious as some others, but they’re not usually this docile. Squid are natural hunters; the really dangerous ones live off the coast of Peru. They’re like fucking piranhas, ripping their prey to shreds in seconds.”

“That’s so cool,” Frank breathes.

Gerard beams at him. “Hey, do you want to stay?” he asks. “I could use some help with the slides.”

Frank thinks perhaps the whole ‘Dr. Iero’ introduction was slightly misleading, since he has no idea what to do with slides, but he figures he’ll learn fast. “Yeah,” he says immediately. “Let’s do it.”

-

 _Drake Passage, near the South Shetland Group_

“Stay away from Brendon,” Spencer growls.

“What the _fuck?_ ” Jon says, and also, “Jesus, don’t stop,” because Spencer’s at the perfect angle now to have Jon seeing stars every time his cock pushes inside.

“Leave. Him. Alone,” Spencer warns, and Jon’s not really in a position to argue, since every word is punctuated by a thrust sharp enough to have Jon’s eyes rolling back into his head. And all right, technically he’s the one who escalated things by not-so-subtly squeezing Brendon’s ass when Spencer dropped by the science deck, but it’s not like he started the whole thing intentionally.

Spencer is amazing in bed when he’s pissed off. Jon thinks maybe it has something to do with his deliberate rhythm and the fact that when he’s in this mood he obviously doesn’t care whether Jon gets off or not. That shouldn’t be as much of a turn-on as it actually is.

He hadn’t exactly meant to end up in bed with Spencer when he showed up here, but it’s not like he fought it, either. And the sex is turning out to be pretty fucking fantastic.

“I…” Jon starts, more words than that not really making themselves known in his head, and then he’s interrupted anyway by the com going off.

“Lieutenant Smith to the bridge,” the com barks, and seriously, Blackinton has got some fucking nerve.

Spencer stills almost entirely, breathing hard and looking down at Jon, their hips rocking together just the tiniest bit with the need to keep going. “Ignore it,” Jon says, and hopes that didn’t sound like a plea.

“It’s a call to the bridge,” Spencer replies disbelievingly.

Jon’s ankles try to lock around Spencer’s hips to keep him there, but they’re both too sweaty and his feet slip almost immediately. It changes their position just enough that Spencer drops his head and groans, thrusting forward involuntarily.

Jon wets his lips and tries to breathe. “Didn’t you just get off?” he asks.

“No,” Spencer says flatly, hips rolling again in a way that makes Jon’s hand scrabble at his back. “I really didn’t.”

“Fuck,” Jon says with feeling, and then, “Five minutes.”

Spencer hesitates, but he’s on the verge of breaking. Jon can tell by the way his cock starts rubbing against Jon’s prostate.

“Smith,” Gabe’s voice breaks in. “Where are you? I need you on the fucking bridge, now.”

Spencer’s cock is gone before Jon can even properly register the loss as more than a teeth-grinding slide and ache. “Seriously?” he says, blinking. “ _Seriously?_ ”

“I’m in the fucking military, it’s not like this is a call from Brendon for you to come water your kelp,” Spencer snaps, yanking on his clothes. He has his pants on and his jacket zipped before Jon can do more than gape in disbelief.

“You’re not actually leaving _right now,_ ” Jon tries again. His cock bobs against his stomach in agreement.

Spencer scowls at him from where he’s tugging on his shoes and tosses the discarded tube of lube back onto the bed. “Use your hand.”

-

Jon’s not expecting to run into Ryan in the corridor five minutes later on the way back to his quarters, but it’s not like he doesn’t seize the opportunity. “Hey,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets and smiling. “Thought you’d be on the bridge.”

Ryan eyes him warily. “My shift ended half an hour ago,” he says, which Jon already knew.

“I was just wondering if there’d been a change,” he says, and keeps smiling. If anyone would know why Spencer’s just been called away, it’s Ryan.

“No,” Ryan says bluntly. He pauses for a second, and then his eyes narrow suspiciously. “Did you just have sex?”

“What?” Jon asks, and tries hastily for an expression that says ‘innocent.’

Ryan leans in and inhales deliberately. His expression doesn’t change, but his tone seems suddenly icier, even when it’s probably exactly the same as well. “Did you just have sex with _Spencer?_ ”

There’s no possible way Ryan could know that just by _sniffing_ him. “Do you have any idea why he would have just left?” Jon asks. He feels silly for asking, but he really wants to know. It’s bugging him.

Ryan seems surprised, but then it’s hard to tell with Ryan. “I’m not talking about this with you,” he replies, and sounds almost apologetic when he says, “You’re the enemy.”

“I know,” Jon says, although he misses hanging out with Ryan. He’s kind of pissed that breaking up with Spencer was a two-for-one deal. Ryan’s a cool guy and a good friend. “I was just wondering if you’d gotten called to the bridge.”

“No,” Ryan says again, and then sharpens his focus. “Why, was Spencer?”

“A few minutes ago,” Jon admits, stuffing his hands back into his pockets and scuffing his foot against the deck. “We were, uh…”

“Don’t tell me,” Ryan orders. He turns around and starts walking back the way he came. “I have to go.”

“Wait,” Jon calls, foolish and a little desperate. “Do you think, uh…?”

“Jon,” Ryan says slowly, “Spencer did not invent an emergency call to the bridge just to get away from you.”

“Right,” Jon says, even though he’s not sure he believes it. “Thanks.”

“I have to go,” Ryan says again. Jon bobs his head, turns around and resumes walking back to his quarters.

That’s right about when the alarms start going off.

-

It’s an unspoken rule that whenever Spencer is on the bridge, Ryan is on the bridge. He kicks Siska off his station and flips on the com, catching Alex’s eye across the room so he knows about the change and hopefully volunteers some information.

“Something’s either wrong with the sensors or wrong with the boat,” Alex explains, just as Ryan had hoped. “They say we’re sinking.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my sensors,” Spencer snaps. He looks frazzled, or as frazzled as Spencer ever gets. He’s also sweaty and rumpled with sex hair, which confirms Ryan’s suspicions and means they’re having a talk as soon as the current crisis is over.

“Ballast?” Ryan asks.

“We tried that,” Alex replies. “It kept us up for about fifteen seconds, and then we started sinking again.”

“What the fuck?” Gabe asks rhetorically.

“I’ve got one WSKR going down with us, but the other two are fine,” Spencer reports. “Whatever’s affecting us, they’re out of range.”

“Um, bridge?” Brendon’s voice suddenly breaks in, sounding confused. “Why are my readings saying we’re in brackish water?”

“What?” Alex asks, pushing back from his station to listen in.

“I’m not getting anything like that,” Spencer contradicts, flipping switches and checking his monitors. “Nothing’s changed, we’re still in the middle of the ocean.”

“My sensors are more sensitive than yours,” Brendon argues. “They’re designed to register changes in salinity, even subtle ones. Right now they’re telling me we’re in an estuary.”

“Shit,” Gabe says. “We’re in a fucking sinkhole. Ryland, get us out of here.”

“Venting ballast,” Ryland replies immediately.

“Still at negative weight,” Spencer says tightly. “We’re about to drop beneath the ocean floor.”

“Vent auxiliary tanks,” Gabe orders. “Adjust the trim tanks, try to angle us up. Ryland, anything?”

“No change,” Ryland reports, at the same time Spencer says, “We’re not going to make it.”

“We’re going to hit bottom,” Gabe says. “Urie, get to quarters and hang onto something.”

“How far are we going to drop?” Alex asks, already at Spencer’s elbow looking over his shoulder.

“We’re sinking faster than the WSKRS,” Spencer says grimly. “I can’t tell yet.”

Ryan does a hydroacoustic sounding and listens for the echo, watching the blip on his screen travel and bounce. “I’ve got a reading,” he reports. “We’re at 200 feet and dropping.”

“Literally,” Alex mutters.

“Sound collision,” Gabe calls, and Ryland echoes it over the com, red lights blaring to life all around them.

“Screen,” Gabe says, snapping his fingers, and the bridge monitor is suddenly filled with the sight of rock wall rising past them, bubbles from the tanks drifting in their wake.

“Thirty seconds,” Ryan estimates.

“Down the rabbit hole,” Gabe muses quietly. “Here we go.”

-

Impact isn’t as bad as they expect it to be; it’s less of a collision and more of a slow, gravelly scrape, metal groaning as the boat settles. Gabe waits until the final shudder to call out, “Everyone okay?”

Ryan loosens his death-grip on the console and glances over to check on Spencer, who catches his eye. “Fine,” he says, echoing Ryland and Alex a second behind.

“Talk to me,” Gabe says.

“Sonar’s unreliable,” Ryan says reluctantly, after another sounding. “It’s calibrated for salt water.”

“I can tell you there’s a big fucking cave to starboard,” Spencer says grimly. “This sinkhole is huge.”

“It had to be, to swallow us,” Gabe points out. “How fucked are we?”

“Salinity is at three-point-five percent,” the com chirps. Ryan’s hand jerks back reflexively towards the switch before he even registers the voice.

“Urie, I thought I told you to get to quarters,” Gabe comments.

“You need me,” Brendon argues. “There’s no way we’re going to regain buoyancy, we’re at the mouth of an underground river. The entire landscape is karstified.”

“How deep are we under?” Gabe asks quietly. Everyone on the bridge hears it anyway; it’s silent except for the distant call of the alarms still sounding in the corridors.

“Too deep for a mini-sub to make it out,” Spencer answers, not even bothering to lower his voice. “Too cold for divers.”

Metal groans again, creaking ominously. Ryan shivers, and tries again to loosen his grip on the communications console. _Watery grave_ , he thinks, and wonders why it doesn’t feel as poetical and romantic as he’d always believed.

“There’s more,” Brendon says. “We’re not just in an underground river, we’re in a hot spring of some sort. The water mixing around us isn’t exactly temperate, but it’s warmer than the Weddell Sea.”

“Warm enough for a diver?” Gabe asks, settling near Ryan’s shoulder to listen. “Warm enough for a dolphin?”

“Bottlenose aren’t a freshwater species,” Brendon answers. “The water would blister his skin, and we don’t even know that there’s anywhere beyond that cave for him to go.”

“We can find out,” Spencer says grimly. “WSKRS are fighting the same weight we are, but I can drag them across the bottom if I have to.”

“Do it,” Gabe orders immediately. “Find out if there’s any way out of here. Ross, release a buoy, maybe someone in the area will spot it. Distress signal on all channels.”

There’s no one in the area; Ryan has been monitoring communications since they headed back into open ocean. He does it anyway, flipping switches automatically that he’s almost never had to use outside of proficiency drills.

The banging makes him jump, and he berates himself for it at once, willing his heart to stop racing. Everyone else looks equally spooked, though, so at least he wasn’t the only one.

“What is that?” Brendon’s voice asks, tinny through the com.

“The hull warming up,” Alex answers, reaching out with one hand to touch a bulkhead. “It’s probably going to keep doing that for a while.”

“Shut the alarms off,” Gabe orders, swinging back down from Ryan’s station to the main deck. “We don’t need people having panic attacks. We’re fine for the time being.”

“Right until the air runs out,” Spencer says quietly, and it takes Ryan a second to realize that the sound came through his headset, for his ears alone.

“You had sex with Jon,” he says stupidly, because if they’re all going to die he might as well have this conversation now. It makes sense in his head, anyway, which is focused on not thinking about the fact that they’re trapped underwater in a giant metal coffin.

Spencer stares at him in disbelief, like that’s the most idiotic possible thing he could have chosen to say at this moment. Ryan just stares mutely back.

His com beeps.

It’s so unexpected that it takes him a while to figure out that the sound didn’t come from Spencer’s channel, or Brendon’s, or the emergency buoy, but from an outside source. Ryan stares at the blinking light on his console for several seconds before he clears his throat and says, “We’re being hailed.”

Gabe’s head whips around so fast Ryan thinks his neck might have cracked. “Who?” he asks.

Ryan shrugs and flips the switch to open up a channel. “This is a United Earth Oceans vessel, please identify yourself,” he says in English, pausing before he repeats the message in the most likely foreign languages.

“Hi,” a friendly voice says through the speakers. “Looks like you found our back door.”

-

 _Sinkhole, near Deception Island_

The fact that they’re apparently not alone down here is not quite as reassuring as Gabe would have thought. Still, Smith hasn’t reported any torpedoes homing in on them yet, so Gabe’s optimistic.

“Knock knock,” he jokes, moving up behind Ross.

The voice on the other end of the com is still decidedly cheerful, but that doesn’t mean Gabe trusts it. “Yeah, we’ve seen you coming for a while. We were kind of hoping you wouldn’t be back, though.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Gabe says, and types _find them_ on one of Ross’ screens. “I don’t suppose you have a front door we could use.”

“Not from where you are,” the voice replies. “You bypassed that when you went straight for the sinkhole approach. We can get you out, though.”

“You don’t say?” Gabe says lightly. Ross is doing something with a descrambler, fingers flying but not fast enough yet to give Gabe any results. The signal is bouncing, ricocheting around the cavern they’re in and seemingly everywhere at once.

“Well, it depends. Do you have any air left, or have you blown through all your tanks?”

“Give me a second.” Gabe slashes a finger across his throat for Ross to cut the transmission, and twists to look at Ryland.

Ryland doesn’t look very happy about their situation, either. “We can redirect emergency life support tanks,” he reports. “Everything else is gone. But it won’t be enough to get us out of here, so if we blow them and this guy fucks us over, we’ll all die down here a lot faster.”

“It does sound suspiciously like a good plan on his part, doesn’t it?” Gabe comments, and motions for Ross to open the channel again. “Hey, turns out we have plenty of air left,” he says cheerfully. “What’s your suggestion?”

Ross murmurs something, and Gabe thinks it’s meant for him until he follows Ross’ line of sight and catches sight of Smith. Smith meets his eyes and jerks his chin, back towards Ross. Gabe looks down at the sensor input scrolling across Ross’ screen, a three-dimensional diagram of the tunnel leading from the mouth of the cave to what looks like a central land mass.

“We can flood the tube with enough salt water to let you coast,” the voice tells him, “but we’d need you to give us some bounce first, to get yourself off the bottom.”

It still sounds like a trap, but Gabe is feeling slightly better now about the odds. “You realize that if this is all big talk, we have a torpedo locked on your location,” he remarks, and swings a finger through the air at Alex to make it happen. “We won’t be going down alone.”

“That was fast,” comes the reply, not sounding particularly threatened. “Good work. It’s not a hoax, though. How about a gesture of good faith?”

“Sounds good,” Gabe answers, but before he can say more, Alex warns, “Incoming,” and the entire boat rocks. Gabe latches on to the back of Ross’ chair, staggering a step, but staying upright.

“High saline concentration,” Ryland says quietly. “They didn’t hit us with anything, they just lifted us a little.”

Gabe squeezes Ross’ shoulder to cut transmission again. “Enough to get us off the ground on our own without blowing the reserves if I ask for another one?” he asks.

Ryland shakes his head.

“Okay,” Gabe says, and squeezes again. Alex mouths ‘torpedo locked’ and holds up ten fingers for the arming countdown. Gabe talks slowly, watching the seconds tick down. “Hey, that works for me,” he says. “Must come in handy, when you have a pet sinkhole. You want to coordinate this over com?”

“Let’s call it in five,” the voice replies. “Head straight into the cave, full speed or you won’t make it. Three, two, one.”

“Go,” Gabe orders, and calls their communicant a cocksucker under his breath for good measure when Alex barely has time to reply, “Blowing tanks.”

“Smith, keep us on course,” Gabe calls, and thinks he hears something along the lines of ‘fucking easy for you to say,’ but nobly ignores it.

The boat rocks, and then there’s the buoyant feeling of being lifted up and cradled by water, adrift, before they start sinking again. “We’re going down,” Alex reports, just as Gabe thinks it. “Four, maybe five seconds.”

“Smith,” Gabe says.

“I’m trying,” Smith says through gritted teeth, and then they hit bottom and shudder, metal screeching in protest as they slide and shake along the rocky bottom. Gabe hangs on to Ross’ station and keeps his eyes glued on the sensor display, watching the tunnel grid shift as they skid through the last few yards. Then the boat tilts hard to starboard, and the grid blinks right before they’re lifted, rising slowly from the bottom and back into the embrace of the ocean.

“Nice trick,” Gabe says, blowing out a breath.

“Thanks,” the com replies smugly. “Welcome to Clandestine.”

-

“We have to make this fast,” Gabe warns when he walks into the conference room, “because there’s some nutcase with his own secret underwater outpost out there waiting for us to send over a welcoming party.”

“Shouldn’t they be the ones welcoming us?” Ryland asks, eyebrows arched.

“Yeah, no dice. We’ve been extended the invitation, they’re not boarding.”

“Sounds like a good set-up for hostage situation,” Alex points out, fingers splayed across the surface of the table.

“No,” Bob says. “No high-ranking officers leave the boat, I go along for protection, and everyone is armed.”

“Hey, woah,” Gabe argues. “I think I should be going over there, as the one in charge and all.”

Bob’s look is mostly impassive, but also states clearly that this isn’t going to happen. “No science personnel,” he continues. “Trained military only. Four-to-five people with proper equipment, and communications are monitored at all times.”

“Do we really think they’re that much of a threat?” Alex asks.

“No weapons systems located, and there’s definitely nothing targeting us,” Smith reports when Gabe raises an eyebrows at him. “But that doesn’t mean they can’t do any damage. They’ve got control over salinity in this cavern. It’s possible they have ways of affecting water pressure as well.”

“If they do, they could crush us like a tin can,” Ryland points out.

“The temperature of the water is being regulated as well,” Urie breaks in unexpectedly. “It’s warmer than it should be, even taking into account some sort of hot springs.”

“In Antarctica?” Smith asks disbelievingly. Urie just shrugs and looks down at the table.

“We treat them like a threat,” Gabe says. “Monitor everything, get me all the information you can and don’t take your eyes off of them for a second. I want to know the minute something happens out there. Bryar, put together an expedition, let’s go see who we’re dealing with.”

Bob nods. Gabe is about to dismiss them all when he’s struck by another thought. “Urie, how warm? If we slipped a diver out at the same time as the mini-sub, would they have any problems?”

Urie looks startled, but comes up with an answer quicker than expected. “Not with the proper equipment,” he replies.

“We could do that,” Alex says thoughtfully. “You want someone to get a closer look? Unobserved?”

Gabe grins at him. “That’s the plan,” he agrees. “Butcher, want to get wet?”

“I’m on it,” Butcher replies at once.

“Done,” Gabe says. “Let’s go. Everybody stay sharp.”

It’s not far to his quarters. As expected, Travis’ program is running, and William is curled up on Gabe’s bunk, waiting.

“Hey,” Travis greets him with a serene bob of his head. “I heard you sunk your boat.”

“I’m not dead yet,” Gabe replies. “Don’t go getting cocky.”

William frowns at him intently. “You should send the squid guy,” he says.

“No bio-geeks,” Gabe counters. “Bob’s rules.” He pauses, giving William his full attention. “Why, did you see something?”

William shrugs a little, uncharacteristically unforthcoming, and says, “Just a feeling.”

Gabe narrows his eyes. William isn’t usually this vague – unhelpful, yes, but shifty, no – when it comes to his visions, but Gabe still trusts his gut, and his gut trusts William. “I’ll tell Bob,” he says. “But he’s going to throw a shitfit.”

“I know,” William says, uncoiling from the bunk to stand. “I’ll go tell Gerard. He’s not going to like it very much either.”

“Then why…?” Gabe begins, but William doesn’t stick around. “What the fuck?” he asks as the door closes.

“Yeah, man,” Travis agrees knowingly. “I say that all the time.”

-

“So you think that the squid are somehow connected to this island?” Gerard asks. Brendon hovers behind him, listening and watching. He hasn’t figured out whether he’s relieved or disappointed that Gerard is the sole exception to the ‘No Scientists’ rule and not him.

“It’s a safe bet,” Alex agrees, fastening the last strap on Gerard’s vest and pulling it snug. “They used the name Clandestine when they contacted us. Also,” he adds, adjusting the harness across Gerard’s shoulders while Gerard holds both arms out obediently and looks mostly bewildered at the military trappings, “Spencer’s done readings. There are a fuck-ton of squid out there.”

“What if he needs help?” Brendon ventures. He still doesn’t think he wants to go, not really, but there’s a part of him that feels like he could be useful. Too useful to be left behind.

“No,” Bob says immediately. “You’re staying put.” Bob’s a big and intimidating guy, especially now with his arms crossed over his chest and a small armory strapped onto his weapons harness, so Brendon meekly subsides.

Jon wraps an arm around him comfortingly. “It will be exciting here, too,” he says. “Like in the movies. We get to monitor things for our top-notch commando team.”

Mostly what they’re going to be monitoring is saline and temperature levels while checking in regularly to make sure that Butcher doesn’t get nitrogen narcosis, but it’s something, at least. Brendon smiles gratefully at Jon and gets a wink in return.

“Just make sure you don’t get distracted eating popcorn,” Spencer says, and Brendon blinks in surprise, twisting around to see Spencer stepping down onto the launch bay platform, weapon holstered on his hip and vest snug over his chest.

“Spencer’s going?” he asks stupidly. Jon seems equally surprised, but then his arm tightens around Brendon’s shoulders, and fuck, here they go again.

Spencer doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “I have clearance, and I’m not a ranking officer,” he points out. Bob holds out a hand to check Spencer’s gear, and grunts approval while Brendon tries to come up with what to say.

“You’re not exactly military elite,” Jon comments, but Brendon thinks there’s more concern in his tone than sarcasm. He’s too distracted to remember that he was groping Brendon, and his fingers are digging in now out of tension.

Spencer’s eyes narrow. “I’m not a coddled civilian, either,” he retorts, and that would sting if Brendon didn’t know that it wasn’t meant for him. Also if he hadn’t heard this argument approximately fifty times before.

“All set,” Alex breaks in, and Gerard lets his arms settle gingerly at his sides, looking a bit spooked and awkward with the added weight of the vest and harness.

“The gun is for show,” Bob says flatly. “And for emergencies. For fuck’s sake, don’t try to shoot anything with it.”

“Bob,” a voice contributes breathlessly, and Brendon catches sight of Frank hanging halfway over the curved tail of the mini-sub. “Are you really going over there? Is it dangerous? Can I come?”

Bob glowers, but even his best glower doesn’t do much in the face of Frank’s enthusiasm. “No,” he says. “Stay here with Urie. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“You could _die,_ ” Frank remarks dramatically, and swings a few inches lower to mash his lips somewhere in the vicinity of Bob’s face. “For luck,” he explains, half-giggling. “In case you don’t return to me.”

Bob obviously tries for another glower, but this one seems mostly resigned. Frank’s been chasing Bob for ages now, but no one is at all sure whether he’s serious about it. He just keeps asking, and Bob keeps saying no.

“Of course I’m fucking returning to you,” Bob says, and seems to realize what he’s said only seconds too late, as Frank’s giggling breaks out at full-strength. “Jesus Christ,” Bob mutters, and then gestures at Gerard and Spencer. “Let’s go.”

Gerard shuffles forward and Frank catches sight of him, the gleeful look on his face replaced by surprise. Gerard doesn’t look up, too busy tugging ineffectually at the straps on his vest until Alex stops him. He glances up once then, meeting Frank’s eyes, and back down, ducking through the hatch.

“He’s going?” Frank asks, still staring in shock at the air where Gerard used to be.

“They need scientists,” Jon says, chin jutting stubbornly forward as Spencer pushes past them. “The military needs someone along with brains.”

Brendon is about to pipe up unhappily that this isn’t really a fight they should be having right now, but Spencer turns sharply on his heel, fast enough to startle the words right out of his mouth. He’s suddenly very close, and Brendon tries to rear back automatically, but Jon’s arm is still trapping him in place, hand clamped like an iron band around Brendon’s bicep.

Spencer leans in and his lips brush across the corner of Brendon’s mouth. “For luck,” he says, eyes glittering dangerously. Then he’s gone, and Jon is too, both of them slamming hatches in opposite directions.

Frank stares at Brendon with wide, surprised eyes. Brendon looks the same way, he’s pretty sure.

He can’t tell which is tingling more, his arm or his mouth.

-

Mikey and Ray are busy analyzing results and writing reports, and Gerard is on his way over to the island, so it falls to Brendon to feed their captive squid.

It’s not that he doesn’t know how to feed a squid, it’s just that he has a healthy appreciation for things like pointy beaks and tentacles, and Gerard has spent the past few days saying things like, “They have hundreds of suction cups on each arm, and each one has sharp rings of chitin, like a serrated knife, which they use to dig through the flesh of their prey.” Brendon also has a healthy appreciation for his own intact flesh.

Jon’s nowhere to be found, and he doesn’t want to look like a pussy in front of Victoria, so he does the next best thing: he calls William.

“I don’t know why you don’t like them,” William comments, dropping tiny fish into Lugosi’s tank one at a time.

“I like them just fine, I’m just busy,” Brendon argues, and at the moment it’s true, because he has his hands full with Dylan. He doesn’t know how Dylan knows it’s not freezing outside anymore, or if it’s just a good guess on his part, but either way, Brendon has an unhappy dolphin.

He falls back when Dylan pushes him, because dolphins are strong and it’s easier than fighting. “Later, I promise,” he soothes, trying to get his hands out of the water to sign. “It’s dangerous right now. Danger.”

“He’s not listening,” William comments, and then, “Oh wow, you should see what Lugosi just did to this fish.”

Brendon doesn’t want to think about it. “Open water,” he says, hands raised high enough to get Dylan’s attention. “Ocea—” and then he gets a mouthful of salt water, because Dylan’s idea of friendly headbutting is somewhat more forceful than Brendon’s.

When he comes to the surface, William is at the edge of the moon pool rubbing Dylan’s tongue. “Traitor,” Brendon mutters, shaking out his hair, but he doesn’t mind, really. He swims over to hang onto to the edge of the pool, rubbing a hand over his bruised stomach. “Do you think he’ll let you clean his teeth?”

“I think we can work something out,” William agrees generously, splashing water into Dylan’s open mouth as Dylan bobs his head and splashes back. “And while I’m here, we can talk about how Smith and Walker are using you as a pawn in their little game of lustful one-upmanship.”

“What?” Brendon says, and also, “No.”

“It’s certainly an original approach to a threesome,” William muses, clearly ignoring Brendon’s answer. “I guess direct doesn’t work for everyone.”

“No,” Brendon says again, in the tone he uses for when Dylan’s on particularly bad behavior. “It’s not like that.”

William is watching his hands with interest, which confuses Brendon until he realizes that he’s still signing. He drops his arms beneath the water, sinks in up to his neck, and says plaintively, “I’m not in a counseling session, you can’t make me talk about this.”

“What most intrigues me,” William continues blithely, “is whether you’re not stopping it because you don’t want to piss Smith off and fuck things up with Ross, or because you’re really secretly enjoying it.”

Brendon takes the noble way out and sinks underwater. He can hold his breath for a long time, and hopefully by the time he comes up William will have become bored with his stealth tactics and gone back to playing with the squid.

When he finally surfaces and slicks his hair back from his face, it turns out that William is nowhere in sight. Brendon gives himself a second to celebrate his success, and then he’s interrupted by the clank of boots on the metal deck.

Ryan looks around for a minute and then squints at Brendon in the moon pool. “Beckett said you wanted me,” he says.

Brendon almost says, ‘No,’ but he’s afraid that if he does, William will pop out of nowhere and say, ‘That’s a bald-faced lie, Urie,’ and Brendon doesn’t really have a good comeback for that.

“Maybe he got the day mixed up,” he says instead, somewhat lamely, and hopes he looks sexy and wet rather than like a half-drowned rat. “You could come back tomorrow just in case.”

Ryan doesn’t roll his eyes, but the sentiment comes across anyway. “You have a com,” he says. “It works.”

“Right,” Brendon agrees, bobbing his head earnestly. Ryan gives him a weird look and leaves, boots clanking back across the deck to the hatch.

Brendon falls backwards into the embrace of the water and floats into the gentle prod of Dylan’s inquisitive beak.

“Be glad you’re a dolphin,” Brendon tells him, one hand on Dylan’s flank to keep them both from submerging. “Seriously, you have no idea.”

-

The fact that they’re met at the dock by a seemingly unarmed, smiling man is probably supposed to be reassuring, but Spencer has been doing this a long time, and the guy has an awful lot of teeth. He keeps his hand away from the holster on his hip, moving with careful precision, half an eye on the civilian in their midst who’s still half-waddling beneath the awkward weight of unfamiliar equipment.

“Hi, I’m Pete,” their host greets them. “Wentz. Welcome to my island.” His grin widens even further. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

“Lieutenant Commander Suarez,” Alex says, taking the lead as ranking officer. “This is our Chief of Security, Bryar, and Sensor Chief Smith.”

“Lots of titles,” Wentz comments. “We’d expected to be found eventually, but not by the UEO. More like a curious science boat coming up with a high number on the krill count.”

“We have a good team of those as well,” Alex says. “This is Dr. Gerard Way, he’s been helping us study the squid we found off the coast of Antarctica, which I believe is one of yours.”

“Oh cool, a teuthologist,” Wentz enthuses. “We have one of our own already, though, and ours is better. No offense.”

“None taken,” Gerard replies bemusedly.

“For a scientific outfit, you have a rather dramatic back door,” Alex remarks, stance shifting just enough to send prickles of warning down Spencer’s spine. The fingers of his right hand twitch slightly.

Wentz doesn’t appear to notice the change. “It’s not like we made it,” he says, shrugging. “We found it, by accident really, and then we found this place. Setting up the eco-stabilizers to control water temperature, pressure, and salinity just made it more habitable.”

“What is this place, exactly?” Alex asks. “You were a little vague on that point.”

Spencer doesn’t think he’s imagining the way Wentz suddenly looks shifty, although the toothy smile never falters. “Well, there’s not really a word for it. It’s sort of an experiment. A scientific research facility.”

“Researching what, exactly?” Alex presses, but Wentz ignores him with a cheerful, “Patrick!”

Spencer has been on a submarine – and around Jon and Brendon – for long enough to recognize a marine scientist when he sees one. Even without the white coat, the newcomer has an aura around him that proclaims ‘researcher’ loud and clear.

He squints at them all, then blinks and says, “Gerard?”

“Patrick?” Gerard echoes.

“You two know each other?” Alex asks. Wentz looks equally surprised.

“There aren’t a lot of good teuthologists out there,” Patrick comments with an edge of what might be sarcasm. “It’s kind of a small field.”

Spencer shifts slightly closer, dropping his voice. “Is this why William wanted you to come along?” he asks, watching Wentz and Patrick shake hands with Alex as the standoff tension dissipates.

Gerard blinks at him, looking confused. “William didn’t tell me to come,” he says. “Mikey did.”

Spencer stares, but he only has a second before Wentz is grabbing everyone’s attention again, and Patrick’s arm as well. “Now that we’re all introduced,” he says cheerfully, “I suppose we can give you the tour.”

-

It’s a beautiful island. Even watching for threats and staying aware of their surroundings, Spencer can admit that. It’s not exactly warm, but nowhere near what Spencer would have anticipated from a sub-arctic outpost.

“That’s Andy’s doing,” Wentz – ‘call me Pete’ – explains when Alex mentions it. “We’re right next to an active volcano. We need to keep the water at a certain level for the squid, of course, but there’s actually a separate area kept at a warmer temperature for some of our less glacially-oriented guests.”

“Look to your left,” Patrick interjects before anyone can ask, and when Spencer looks down, he sees a familiar head break the surface.

He thinks for a split-second that it’s Dylan, but the coloring is wrong, the beak too pointy. Then another dorsal fin pokes up behind the first, and he realizes that it’s not just one, it’s an entire _pod._

“You have dolphins,” he says dumbly, his brain already spitting off their latitude, longitude, and the reasons why what he’s seeing is impossible. “How do you have dolphins?”

“They were here when we arrived,” Patrick answers, stepping up beside him with both hands shoved into his pockets. “The tunnel system down here is extensive, we think they must have originally been caught by a sinkhole closer to the tip of South America and managed to survive because of the natural air pockets and cracks in the ice. They weren’t in very good shape when we arrived, but with the temperature adjustments and a steady food supply, they’re doing much better.”

“What species?” Spencer asks, and thinks even as he says it that he’s been spending too much time hanging around Brendon.

“That’s just it,” Pete says. “We haven’t named them yet. There are enough differences from the genus that we think this might be an entirely new species. We’re going to call them _Dolphinius Patrickus_.”

“Pete wants to call them that,” Patrick corrects with an aggrieved sigh. “But we’ll probably go with something more along the line of Weddell’s Dolphin. If they’re proven to be a new species, of course.”

“We have a mammologist on board,” Alex comments, eyes on the water where more fins are breaking the surface, undoubtedly drawn by the noise. “I’m sure he’d be happy to drop in and take a look.”

‘Happy’ is the biggest understatement Spencer’s ever heard. He thinks Brendon might actually die of ecstasy.

“How are you surviving down here?” Gerard asks suddenly. “Even with regular trips to an outpost to restock supplies, it has to be tough to perform basic maintenance and feed everyone.”

“Ah, well,” Pete says, and the shiftiness is back, even though Spencer can’t figure out what makes him think it. It’s not his expression so much as a scent in the air, evasive and deliberately light. “We grow a lot of our own plants, and there aren’t actually that many of us down here. Four, to be exact. It’s a small expedition.”

“Expedition,” Bob echoes, the first thing he’s said since they arrived. Spencer glances over his shoulder to see Bob flanking Gerard, alert and relaxed all at once.

“Research expedition,” Pete says. “Experimental scientific outpost. Whatever you’d like to call it. We’re studying the effects of this unique marine environment on the native aquatic species.”

“Like the squid,” Gerard pipes up.

“Yes, the squid,” Pete agrees. “We have a lot of those down here. Probably because we also have a lot of krill. Warmer water, more fish. You know how it is.”

“Right,” Gerard says, rubbing his nose. He’s watching Patrick, Spencer realizes. And Patrick is watching the ground.

“We should move on,” Pete suggests, smile wide and bright. “There’s a lot more to see.”

-

Brendon looks surprised when Ryan comes in, which is what Ryan was half-expecting. “Why does Beckett keep telling me you need me?” he asks, because right now he’s annoyed at both of them, but it would be better to focus on one person.

“I don’t know,” Brendon says, but he’s a terrible liar, so Ryan doesn’t actually believe him. Brendon, then.

“Knock it off,” Ryan says. He’s grumpy the way he always is when Spencer does stupid things like leave the boat to go on dangerous missions, and he really doesn’t feel like trooping down here every half-hour because of some childish practical joke.

Brendon shifts his weight back and forth, looking guilty. “I’m about to check in with Butcher, maybe he thought you needed me for that. I don’t, though,” he says hastily, pointing at the portable console Ryan has set up. “I just push the green button.”

Ryan weighs his options and decides to stay, just in case the system has a glitch or Brendon forgets which color the button is supposed to be. “Go ahead,” he says, sitting down on one of the yellow storage crates that are stacked all over the science deck. “I’ll wait.”

Brendon opens his mouth, closes it again, then pushes the button and says, “Butcher?”

“Coming in loud and clear,” the voice on the other end crackles. “Don’t worry, the water’s great.”

“How are you feeling?” Brendon asks. “Any vertigo?”

“None,” Butcher answers. “I’m getting some great photos, though. You should see what’s down here.”

“What color is the water?” Brendon asks. Ryan frowns at him for asking such a stupid and obvious question, but he follows it up with, “What time was it when you left the boat?” and “What’s the reading on your depth gauge?” so Ryan guesses this is part of the routine.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Brendon asks finally.

“Your _mom,_ ” Butcher answers. “I’m fine, seriously. When is the team due back, any word?”

Brendon looks to Ryan, who clears his throat and says, “Four hours. They’ve been invited for lunch.”

“Cool,” Butcher says. “Is that Ross? Hey, Ross. Oh, hey, that’s really pretty.”

Brendon leans forward immediately, finger tense on the console. “Butcher?” he asks worriedly.

“The lights,” Butcher says. “So cool. Wow.”

“Butcher, I think you should get back to the boat,” Brendon says firmly, and Ryan thinks he might be panicking a little beneath the calm.

“I’m just fucking with you,” Butcher says, and cackles through the speaker. “I’m heading back anyway, though. Hey, have Ryland meet me before the team gets back, I think they might all want to see this.”

“Funny,” Brendon says, tone implying anything but. “I’ll tell him.”

“See you in a few,” Butcher replies, and Brendon lets go of the button with a short sigh.

“I’m leaving,” Ryan announces, standing up and tugging down the sleeves of his uniform jacket. He pretends not to notice Brendon’s mournful look, and Brendon doesn’t say anything, so it’s easy to ignore.

What’s less easy to ignore is Jon standing in the open hatch just around the corner, blocking the way. “Tell me you’re off-duty,” he says with a half-grin.

Ryan knows the invitation for what it is, but he’s still torn. “Spencer,” he says.

“Four hours,” Jon croons. “We have four glorious hours before he gets back.”

Ryan glances quickly to the side, but Brendon is out of sight and there’s no one else around. “We have to be fast,” he warns, voice lowered.

“I’m game if you are,” Jon says. “Your quarters, ten minutes?”

“Yours,” Ryan counters, because Spencer has a habit of showing up unannounced, and the second he sets foot in Ryan’s quarters, he’ll know. “And this had better be good.”

Jon’s eyes are positively twinkling. “Oh, it will be,” he promises. “Trust me on that.”

-

Jon is amazing. “Amaaaaazing,” Ryan says out loud, because he likes the way the word feels when he stretches it out on his tongue.

“The beauty of hydroponics,” Jon says, misunderstanding, and Ryan doesn’t correct him, because that’s amazing too.

“Amaaaazing.”

Jon nods solemnly and then ruins it by grinning, and Ryan grins back. He’s missed this. He’s missed Jon. He also can’t feel his toes.

“I can’t feel my toes,” he says, and then looks down to see if they’re wiggling or not like he thinks they probably are.

“I’m just that good,” Jon agrees, and wiggles his own toes next to Ryan’s. Wiggle. Wiggle.

Ryan claps a hand over his face to stop the giggle fit he can feel coming on. “I can’t believe Brendon lets you grow this stuff in the _science lab_ ,” he says, with an appropriately skeptical noise for good measure. Then again, Brendon is very inappropriate. “Inappropriate,” Ryan explains for Jon’s benefit.

“I have a very understanding superior officer,” Jon says sagely. “And I kill things for him so he can do autopsies and don’t tell Victoria about it. It works out.”

Ryan eyes Jon with new appreciation. “That’s devious,” he says. “I like devious.”

“I like your best friend,” Jon says, a bit sadly, and Ryan thinks the tense choice was probably not a mistake but chooses not to point it out anyway.

“I like my best friend too,” he says instead. It’s true. Spencer is awesome. And also devious. He would probably kill things for Brendon, if Brendon asked.

“I like you, too,” Jon says, and smiles. His whole face lights up like a lamp, or one of those anglerfish with the funny heads.

“I like you too, too,” Ryan proclaims generously, and smiles back. “Your face is like a lamp.”

“My face is awesome,” Jon corrects. “Just like the rest of me.”

Ryan thinks Jon is pretty awesome all around, and also would probably look good naked. “You know who would look good naked?” he says abruptly. “Brendon’s ass.”

Jon gives this due thought. “It’s very round,” he agrees finally.

Ryan is already aware of this. He’s thought several times about how round Brendon’s ass is. “Unprofessional, though,” he says, and only gets stuck for a second on the syllables, which is actually an admirable feat. He’s not entirely sure whether he means thinking about another crew member’s ass, or Brendon himself.

Jon is frowning at him, but not a mad frown, just a thinking frown. “You know,” he says, “For a communications officer, you’re not very good at communicating.”

“I know,” Ryan says, and sighs. No one understands him. His life is hard. Except Spencer. Spencer understands him. Spencer even got that thing Ryan told him once about how Brendon was so transparent that Ryan didn’t trust it, because he felt like the transparency itself had to be some sort of façade.

“We are all of us made of paper and paste,” Ryan announces suddenly.

Jon twists around to look at him. “Hey,” he says after a minute. “That almost rhymes.”

Ryan frowns. “No,” he says. “It alliterates.”

“Awesome,” Jon says, and smiles. Then he reaches out and pets Ryan’s face. Ryan smiles back.

-

“So what exactly am I looking at?” Gabe asks.

Butcher’s the best deep-sea diver they have, but sometimes he acts a little too much like a bio-geek. Right now he and Urie are doing some sort of silent communing that involves a lot of troubled expressions and headshaking. All Gabe sees on the images Butcher brought back are squiggles. And maybe some circle-things. But mostly squiggles.

“It’s a breeding ground,” Urie answers, finger tracking several of the squiggles as if that will make their meaning more apparent. “They’re not just studying them, they’ve actually created a habitat that will attract this particular species.”

“Their water brings all the fishies to the yard,” Butcher seconds.

“Yeah, okay,” Gabe agrees, tilting his head to get a different view of the pictures. “So is this legal?”

Butcher and Urie exchange a glance. From the doorway, Walker raises his hand and tips it from side to side, a so-so gesture.

“It depends on why they’re doing it,” Urie says finally. “If it’s just to study them, then no. If it’s affecting the local ecosystem – and we know it is, to some degree at least, that’s why we’re down here monitoring the krill count – then the ground is a bit shakier. But…”

“But,” Butcher finishes, “that image third from the right doesn’t look like a scientific facility.”

“What does it look like?” Gabe asks. He hadn’t thought twice about it originally, and can still only identify it as the big box standing out from the snapshots of squiggles, but now that he’s looking at it, it does remind of something.

“A charnel house,” Walker says. Urie glances over at him and nods unhappily. Walker puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, and did Gabe miss another memo regarding the inter-personal relationships of his crew after the great Smith-Walker blow-out of last month?

Butcher passes him a close-up photograph taken through the open grate at the top of the building in question, and Gabe finally sees what the others have been waiting to show him. “You think they’re killing the squid,” he says, just to clarify.

Urie raises his fingers and ticks off points. “There aren’t enough of them out there to justify this large a breeding ground. The one we found was tagged, which we thought was a scientific marker, but it could also be a mark of ownership. And Gerard thinks their behavior suggests domestication.” He swallows, and Jon squeezes again. “Like livestock.”

“ _That’s_ not legal,” Gabe says emphatically. He might be sketchy on the science stuff, but he knows his shit when it comes to killing marine animals. There’s a world-wide ban on consuming commercial animal meat, and the oceans are more often targeted because it’s harder to catch people breaking the law when there are no cages or fences required.

“I couldn’t get in,” Butcher says. “Not without attracting a lot of attention. So this is all speculation. All I can give you for sure are the breeding grounds.”

“Is it enough?” Gabe asks, looking sideways at Urie for confirmation. Urie nods reluctantly, and Gabe stands. “It’s enough. Good work. Urie, I want you with me on the next team over there, so report to Bryar as soon as the mini-sub gets back. Bring along anything you might need to prove this theory. If it’s true, I want these guys in irons.”

-

As far as suspected meat-packing criminal masterminds go, Pete Wentz is not particularly intimidating. “Welcome to my island,” he says as soon as they disembark. “I’ve given your other people the tour, but if you’d like one as well, it doesn’t take very long.”

Gabe sticks his thumbs through his belt loops and smiles to match Pete, wide and lazy. “How about we skip the official tour,” he suggests, “and you tell us about the squid farm?”

Pete’s smile falters for barely a second, but then it’s back in full force. “Okay,” he admits, “so along with the scientific research, there are also some less-than-legal aspects to our being here. But hear me out.”

“I’m listening,” Gabe promises.

“Squid party hard and die young,” Pete says, spreading his hands. “Once they’ve laid their eggs, they’re generally finished. We don’t have to kill them, because they die on their own, and still in good health, as far as eating them is concerned.”

“There are a lot more squid down here than four of you could possibly need,” Gabe points out. Urie had given him the statistics on the way over.

“That’s the experimental part of it,” Pete says. “Our research is geared towards finding out whether a completely free-range and cruelty-free marine colony is commercially viable.”

“Selling meat for consumption is illegal,” Urie says.

“Yes, I did say that,” Pete points out. “But there’s no better way of doing this. We’re not killing them, we have scientists monitoring them at all times, and the species isn’t endangered.”

“Not yet,” Urie argues, before Gabe can get a word in edgewise. “Antarctica has lost nearly fifteen percent of its ice mass over the past five decades. Every species down here is on the verge of becoming endangered.”

“We’re being careful,” Pete promises. “That’s why Patrick and Andy are here, to keep an eye on not only our test group, but also the local ecosystem.”

“You’re heating the water and increasing the population of a single species,” Urie says, in high scientific dudgeon. “How can that not affect the local ecosystem?”

“We’re limiting our impact,” Pete says. “The modifications are contained, and this is a naturally-occurring habitat. There’s still a demand for calamari and other seafood, and most of it is done illegally in open waters where it can’t be controlled. We’re exploring safe and cruelty-free options.”

“There’s no such thing,” Urie says stubbornly.

“Okay, okay,” Gabe interrupts, because he needs a chance to process before they go another six rounds. “How about you give us that tour?”

Pete looks as if he wants to keep going, but holds himself back. “Right this way,” he says.

-

“So this squid is going to have lots of little baby squid and then die naturally?” Gabe asks, settling on the man-made barrier marking the edge of the island beside Brendon.

Brendon glances over at the squid, then shrugs. “Well, not this one,” he says, watching as Gabe performs one of his usual feats of idiotic bravery and reaches into the tank to pet the tip of one long tentacled arm. “This one is a boy.”

Gabe frowns. “How do you know?” he asks.

“Because you’re stroking his penis,” Gerard supplies, joining them next to the water. It should look ridiculous, wearing sunglasses on an underwater island, but the simulated sunlight is bright and warm, and Gerard somehow manages to pull it off. Brendon wonders how he even knew to pack them.

Gabe makes a face and retracts his hand from the pool, wiping it off on his pants. “You missed the tour.”

“I was talking to Patrick,” Gerard says, looking down at the squid drifting lazily along the edge of the water. “I think I probably got all of the essential details.”

“So what do you think?” Gabe asks. It’s funny, the way he phrases a question to sound casual but with just enough gravity behind it that Brendon knows whatever he and Gerard say will probably swing the vote. Gabe listens to his people.

“I don’t like it,” Brendon says, but he’s used up all of his scientific arguments, his ethical arguments, on the tour long before this. He feels like he’s run out of words.

“He makes a convincing case,” Gabe remarks. Brendon just shrugs, and looks down into the water. The squid is gone from sight, but he knows there are more down there, so he keeps his hand away from the gently rippling surface.

“It’s a good theory,” Gerard replies, squinting off into the distance, possibly at the squat gray building rising from the other side of the island. “His ideas about the environmental impact are flawed, but it’s still a good theory. Fuck, it might even work.”

“He’s certainly got business sense,” Gabe agrees. “If this experiment of his goes forward, he could be a millionaire in less than a year.”

“If,” Brendon echoes, and looks at Gabe.

“We’ve got options,” Gabe answers, lazy and casual, as if he’s not deciding the fate of a scientific outpost that could have a massive, global biological impact. “We can shut them down, we can leave them alone for now and check back in later, or we can report them and leave it in the hands of the UEO.”

“If it goes public, more people will try it,” Brendon points out. “Probably taking even less precautions. There could be marine animal farms all over the oceans, and who says it stops with squid? Why stop when people will eat sharks, or whales?”

“Those would be harder to maintain,” Gerard muses. He waves his hand when Brendon opens his mouth to argue. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. But there are other options, too.”

Gabe’s interest is piqued, Brendon can tell by the way his eyebrows jump. “Such as?”

“A supervising UEO-sanctioned scientific delegation,” Gerard answers, mouth twisting up lopsidedly. “Assigned to observe and report back, make sure everything is strictly legal.”

Gabe’s eyebrows climb higher. “You want to stay,” he says, and it’s not a question. Gabe’s good at reading people.

Gerard shrugs. “I’m not saying Patrick hasn’t got it in hand,” he says. “Just that it would look better if I was here. I have a security clearance. And you’d get off a lot easier, making this official.”

“How long?” Gabe asks. He’s already sold, Brendon can tell. Now it’s only a matter of working out the details.

Gerard shrugs again. “Trial basis? Say a month? Maybe six weeks. However long it takes you to complete your next assignment and get back to us.” He chews on the inside of his cheek and then adds, “Mikey and Ray are gonna want to stay, too. I’ll ask them, but this is a pretty big deal for us.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” someone else breaks in, and they twist around to see Pete standing behind them, grinning. He spreads his hands apologetically. “What? You can’t blame me for having an interest.”

“You’re okay with supporting a second team?” Gabe asks.

“I’m all for official sanction if it keeps us going,” Pete answers. “The more, the merrier.”

“Let me call it in to the big bosses,” Gabe says, standing up from the barrier. “They make the decisions. I’ll put my support behind the idea, though.”

“That’s all I can ask,” Pete says, reaching out to shake hands. He does the same with Gerard, but his hand lingers when it clasps Brendon’s, the grip firm but not crushing. “You still haven’t seen our dolphins,” he points out. “I would think a new species could keep even a world-class mammologist busy for a couple of months.”

Brendon gapes at him. “You want me to stay?” he decodes at last. Because he’s been an active proponent of shutting the whole operation down, it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but Pete looks like he’s in earnest.

Pete just grins wider. “I like a challenge,” he says. “You’ll keep us on our toes. Besides, we could really use one more science guy running around fussing over the algae, and I like you. You fight for what you believe.”

Brendon doesn’t know what to say to that. Pete seems to understand his loss for words, and lets him go with one last squeeze. “Think about it,” he says. “I can wait.”

-

Spencer finds Brendon sitting on the bridge over the moon pool on the science deck, legs dangling over the side. Brendon’s not particularly surprised at being found – this is the most likely spot to find him, after all – but he is surprised that it’s Spencer who comes looking.

“So,” Spencer says by way of preamble, tucking his legs up under him so his boots don’t get wet. “Are you going to stay?”

Brendon hums a little, kicking ripples through the water with his toes. “I haven’t decided yet,” he admits. He’s long since stopped being surprised by how fast word travels on a submarine, but he’d half-hoped that he could make up his mind about this one before anyone asked him. He’s just not sure whether that’s because he wants to sound firm when he says it aloud or because he’s hoping someone will try to talk him out of it.

“It would only be for a month,” Brendon continues, when Spencer doesn’t say anything else. “Two at the most.”

“Unless it really is a new species,” Spencer says. “Then you could spend the rest of your life studying them, right? Biological differences, modified behavior, environmental adaptations.” He shrugs a little when Brendon glances sideways at him and explains, “I talked to Jon.”

“Oh.” Brendon traces a circle in the water with his big toe, and then asks casually, “Are you two…?”

“No,” Spencer says, before Brendon can even get the rest of the question out. “Fuck, no.”

“Oh,” Brendon says again. They sit in silence for a while before he speaks up again. “It’s not like it was always a dream of mine or anything, but that’s because it was impossible. I mean, a new species? As thoroughly as the oceans have been explored? It’s not even rational.”

“Right,” Spencer says.

Brendon broods for a while longer, but he pretends he’s just thinking and not actually brooding. Spencer lets him.

“If I’d known,” Brendon says quietly, so quietly that maybe no one will be able to hear him, maybe it won’t even be real. “It would have been my dream.”

“I know,” Spencer says, and it sounds like a decision. It sounds like Brendon’s made a decision, and Spencer was just the one brave enough to say it out loud. Brendon thinks Spencer has probably known all along, and that’s why he’s really down here now, waiting for Brendon to say it.

Brendon closes his eyes and sighs. He feels the current shift even before Dylan’s beak bumps his instep and he hears the surfacing puff of a blowhole opening. “Hey,” he says softly, dragging his toes over Dylan’s smooth melon. “I’ll miss you.”

Spencer’s silent for a while longer, and then his arm comes up and wraps around Brendon’s shoulders, strong and supportive. Brendon leans into him, face pressed against his shoulder, and listens to Dylan’s familiar clicks and whistles. He knows what all of them mean. In a few days, he’s going to have to start all over again.

He rubs his nose against Spencer’s shirt, eyes still closed. “Take off your shoes and stay a while, Spencer Smith,” he suggests quietly.

“Okay,” Spencer says, and squeezes him a little bit closer.

-

Ryan’s not high anymore by the time Spencer shows up at his door, but he’s not exactly fully recovered, either.

“Uh, hi,” he says when he opens the hatch. He hopes his eyes aren’t too bloodshot.

Spencer just rolls his eyes and shoulders past. “I’m not stupid,” he says, pushing the open bags of crackers and cookies across the table and taking a seat. “I already know. Whatever, it’s not like I care.”

“You used to,” Ryan points out, rightfully wary. Spencer sometimes says he doesn’t care when he really does, and he finds ways of making you pay.

“We were breaking up, and he was badmouthing the military and my _career_ while still hanging out all the time with you,” Spencer responds, putting his feet up on the other chair. “Of course I was pissed.”

“So now you’re not?” Ryan asks. He’s not sure how they’re playing this yet.

“No,” Spencer answers. “He can do whatever the fuck he wants, I don’t care. It’s not like we’re together anymore.”

“You’re still fucking him, though,” Ryan says. It doesn’t come out quite as accusing as he’d feared, but Spencer can read his tone better than most.

“One time, Jesus,” Spencer complains. “ _Once._ ”

“Uh-huh.” Ryan considers for a second, then pushes Spencer’s feet off of the other chair and sits down. “You don’t want the cow but the milk hasn’t gone bad yet?”

Spencer makes a face. “That analogy is atrocious,” he says. “And no, it was just a…thing. He was pissing me off.”

Ryan thinks that, ‘So you fucked him,’ probably isn’t a response Spencer will appreciate. “Calcium craving,” he says instead.

Spencer stares at him for a second, and then wipes a hand across his face and starts laughing. “God. This is why none of my relationships are ever going to work. People feed you that ‘your lover is supposed to be your best friend’ bullshit when they don’t realize no one else can compare.”

Ryan shoves the package of chocolate chip cookies across the table.

“Brendon’s leaving tomorrow,” Spencer says, around a mouthful of crumbs. “As soon as we surface to refill our air tanks and top up the mini-sub.”

Ryan feels a twinge of shock in his stomach, but shrugs it off. “So?” he asks blankly.

Spencer stares him down in a way that says he’ll put up with Ryan’s pot smoking and hanging out with his ex, but not his bullshit. “You’ve got eighteen hours to change his mind,” he says, getting up from the table and stealing one last cookie on the way out. “Don’t fuck it up.”

-

It’s really a coincidence that Ryan doesn’t get the portable emergency radio for the mini-sub double-checked until the last minute, when Brendon and Gerard are set to board. He walks in ten minutes before they’re scheduled to leave, radio in hand, stomach only slightly upset. Jon’s pot has that effect on him sometimes; it’s probably a side-effect of the hydroponics.

Brendon’s in the middle of giving Jon the longest hug Ryan has ever seen, hands fisted tight in Jon’s shirt. As Ryan watches, he turns his head into Jon’s hair and says something, too low for Ryan to catch. He glances at Spencer, but there’s no jealousy in Spencer’s expression, so Ryan expects it’s one of those things Brendon gets away with by virtue of being Brendon.

Spencer catches sight of him then, and his expression changes from brooding into something closer to relief. “Hey,” he says.

Brendon breaks away from Jon at the sound, scrubbing a hand through his already unkempt hair, ducking his head and laughing a little. He sees Ryan a second later, and his lips quirk up a little, the beginning of a smile.

“Hey,” he says, “I didn’t know if you were coming to say goodbye.”

“I had to bring the radio down,” Ryan says, holding it up. “It’s fine, everything’s been checked. Just make sure to keep it charged when you haven’t been using it for a while.”

Brendon looks bewildered, but he takes the radio when Ryan hands it to him. “Okay,” he says belatedly. “Thanks.”

Spencer’s glaring daggers into the back of Ryan’s head, he can feel it. Spencer can just fuck off; Ryan has enough of a headache already.

Frank saves him by appearing in front of Brendon, arms outstretched. “I still say you need a chef,” he says, continuing some conversation Ryan hasn’t been a part of as he wraps Brendon up in a hug. “Who knows what they’ll feed you down there.”

“It’s not going to be seaweed soufflé, that’s for sure,” Brendon laughs, hugging him back fiercely. “They need you here, though. You wouldn’t want Bob to waste away to nothing.”

“No,” Frank agrees, but his eyes cut sideways, and it’s not to Bob.

Gerard smiles back, giving Frank a little wave. “Thanks for the meals,” he says.

“Anytime,” Frank answers. They’re standing in front of each other now, hands stuffed in their pockets, grinning. “Thanks for introducing me to your squid.”

“My pleasure,” Gerard replies. He keeps smiling for a moment, and then breaks away to turn to one of the other members of his team. “See you in two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” Ray answers, nodding and moving in for a hug of his own, brief but comfortable. He has the preliminary reports in one hand, ready to be filed once they get back to UEO headquarters. “Give or take.”

“Take care of Mikey,” Gerard says. Mikey looks completely unimpressed by this, but not really surprised, either. The hug Gerard gives him is a lot tighter, and at least three times as long.

“Okay, let’s get this boat in the water,” Butcher says, slapping Brendon on the back. “You’ve got a schedule to keep.”

“Right, yeah,” Brendon says. He catches Ryan’s eyes briefly before ducking his head, looking away. “All aboard.”

“Keep in touch,” Frank orders, hanging back with Jon as Gerard and Brendon duck through the hatch onto the mini-sub.

“Everybody out, we’re opening the sea doors,” Butcher calls, and Ryan falls in with the rest, heading back onto the main deck as the pressure hatch seals.

Spencer’s still looking at him, and it’s fucking annoying. “What?” Ryan asks finally.

Spencer just shakes his head. “You’re an idiot,” he says, and walks off after Jon.

-

 _Drake Passage, near the South Shetland Group_

“I’m surprised you know how to pilot one of these things,” Gerard remarks after they clear the launch bay.

“Hobby,” Brendon answers, both hands on the controls. “I like to learn new things.”

“It’s a useful skill to have,” Gerard says, leaning over to look through the reinforced window. “I usually get shuttled around a lot. It would be cool to have one of these though, you know?”

Brendon smiles a little in spite of himself, the gloom starting to lift. “They’re expensive as hell,” he says, half-twisting to share a grin with Gerard. “That’s why I always borrow the UEO’s.”

“Even better,” Gerard agrees, laughing. “Fuck, this is creepy as hell, all this water. I don’t know how you do it. I hate even being on an outpost.”

“You get used to it,” Brendon admits. “Artificial lighting, enclosed spaces, looking out the window and always seeing blue. It makes trips to the surface even more amazing, though.”

“I’ll bet,” Gerard says, with another little snorting laugh. “I don’t think I could do it. A whole month down here, fuck. How long will it take us to get there?”

“Full descent in about an hour and a half,” Brendon says, checking his screen. “Might as well get comfortable.”

“Are you going to miss your submarine?” Gerard asks. He sounds genuinely curious, enough to make Brendon turn to look at him. “It looked like there were a lot of people who came to see you off.”

“It’s a good place to live,” Brendon says. He fiddles with the controls for a minute, then adds, “It’s the people more than the place.”

“Yeah,” Gerard agrees. “I don’t know what I’d do without Mikey and Ray. It’s cool to have your whole family with you all the time. It’s probably weird for them, being without you.”

Brendon clamps his lips shut, and focuses on piloting for a while. Finally he says, “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Nah, I know these things,” Gerard says. “Me and Mikey see things in people all the time. They’re going to miss you.”

“Maybe Jon,” Brendon allows, forcing himself to relax a little. “Jon’s great.”

“All of them,” Gerard says, waving a hand in lazy, looping circles through the air. “You’re one big fucking family.”

“Yeah, well,” Brendon says noncommittally, turning his attention back to their course. He’s used to being on his own, anyway. Leaving the submarine isn’t really all that different from leaving home.

-

They’re at nearly 3,000 feet on the depth gauge when the mini-sub is knocked off course.

“What the fuck was that?” Gerard asks, wide-eyed, mouth hanging half-open in shock.

Brendon picks himself up from where he’d fallen half-out of his chair and checks the readings. “Something hit us,” he says. “It looks like…”

The mini-sub shakes again, and this time they aren’t just jarred, their movement is completely arrested. The sub tilts until they’re hanging at a forty-five degree angle, and it’s all Brendon can do to cling to the control panel and try not to fall.

“What’s wrong?” Gerard asks, braced against one of the bulkheads with both arms outstretched to keep himself from sliding. “Is someone shooting at us?”

“That wasn’t a torpedo,” Brendon says, trying to make sense of the blinking numbers scrolling across his screen. “It feels more like a grappling hook. Did Pete say anything about bringing us in?”

“Nothing like this,” Gerard says fervently. “I don’t think this is our warm welcome to the tropical fucking underwater paradise.”

“I’ve lost the rudder control,” Brendon says, leaning on the stick to no avail. “It’s snapped or jammed, we can’t steer. Going to emergency surfacing proced—”

Something smacks across his front window with more force than water should allow, heavy and strong. “What…?” he begins, and then his eyes widen in recognition.

“Kill the lights,” Gerard yells behind him. “Kill the lights _now._ ”

He hits every switch he can, shutting down power, external lights, sensors, even life support. They can do without it for a while, there’s enough air in the cabin. Without the internal cabin lights, it’s pitch black. Brendon closes his eyes for a second and breathes. Complete darkness is never so terrifying as when you’re in the depths of the ocean, with no source of light from anywhere at all.

“Tell me,” Brendon says slowly, voice shaking, “that wasn’t a giant squid.”

Gerard’s face flickers into life a second later, thrown into sharp relief by a penlight. “It’s not,” he says, and clamps the penlight between his teeth, using both hands to crawl slowly up the floor towards Brendon. He holds the light up once he reaches the window, shining it on what looks, to Brendon, terrifyingly like a tentacle.

“Really?” Brendon asks squeakily. “Because it looks like it.”

“It’s a colossal,” Gerard informs him. “They’re actually much bigger than giant squid. The largest living invertebrates we know of. See the arm? A giant squid would have suction cups, filled with serrated teeth for gripping into flesh and tearing it apart. The colossal,” he says, directing the beam of light pointedly onto the arm blocking their view of the ocean, “has sharp, swiveling hooks.”

“Great,” Brendon says faintly. “Better for taking down larger prey, no doubt.”

“Ripping through tough hides, anyway,” Gerard says. His voice is lowered; the darkness around them seems to call for a hush, even with the low creaking of squid-hooks against the hull. “These things have taken on whales and won. They take down prey by puncturing the skin and creating deep wounds with their beaks.”

The hull groans again, and there’s a rustling whisper against the exterior of the sub, like the squid is readjusting its hold. Brendon whispers, not really wanting to know, “Can it cut through metal?”

“Probably.” Gerard doesn’t sound particularly troubled by it, just stating a fact. “I don’t know that it will bother, though. We’re not shiny anymore.”

“We’re still tasty,” Brendon points out, and then stops talking, because the rustling sound has started again, and he doesn’t know if it can hear them.

The world tilts again, and Brendon tumbles shoulders-first into the front of the sub, elbows cracking painfully against the window. “We’re diving,” he says unnecessarily, groping around for something solid to hold onto. Gerard’s penlight is still on, but halfway across the cockpit, having rolled into a corner. Brendon can’t see anything, and his screens are dead.

“It’s probably going to try to knock us against some rocks,” Gerard’s voice says from nearby, somewhere to Brendon’s left. “We’re a giant shell it hasn’t been able to get open yet.”

“If it gets us open, we’re dead,” Brendon gasps, elbow throbbing. “Even with the emergency air canisters. But if it keeps dragging us down, we’ll be crushed anyway.”

“What’s the crush depth on a mini-sub?” Gerard asks. He’s closer now, and just after he finishes speaking, Brendon feels a warm hand gripping his leg.

“Three thousand feet,” Brendon answers, forgotten knowledge slipping back into his mind with hardly a thought. “Why, what’s the crush depth on a colossal squid?”

“Over twenty-two hundred metres,” Gerard replies, finally inching his way up beside Brendon against the window. “Roughly fifty thousand feet.”

“Jesus,” Brendon whispers, and he’s pretty sure he means it. He hasn’t prayed in a long time, but there’s a razor-sharp hook just inches from his head, and the only thing separating them is a piece of plate glass. If there was ever a time to pray, he thinks this is probably it.

“How fast are we diving, can you tell?” Gerard asks worriedly. “Jet propulsion takes a lot of energy; it won’t expend any unless it has to.”

“We’re still okay,” Brendon says. He’s seventy, eighty percent sure of that. “Maybe it will lose interest.”

“Hey,” Gerard says suddenly. “Does this thing come equipped with underwater flares?”

-

Ryan gives Spencer a worried look when he takes his station on the bridge, like he’s afraid Spencer’s going to chew him out over com the second he turns it on. Spencer flips his headset to public channels only and ignores him completely.

He’s doing it quite well until Ryan announces, “Incoming call from Clandestine.”

“Main screen,” Gabe says, and Pete’s face fills the front wall of their bridge, leaning in close to the camera.

“Wentz,” Gabe says cheerfully. “Fancy seeing you again.”

“Just making sure you made it to the surface,” Pete says. “I knew you were low on air.”

“Bobbing like a cork,” Gabe replies. “We’re on our way north now, should be checking in with you in a month or two.”

“Sounds good to me,” Pete agrees. “Any idea when your science team is going to arrive? I’m not pushing or anything, we’re just holding off on doing some stuff until they get here. We were hoping you’d have a rough estimate.”

Spencer doesn’t think he’s the only one who suddenly goes very still.

“You know we’re only sending over the one sub, right?” Gabe asks, slightly perplexed beneath the relaxed, casual smile. “The other team is coming back with us to the UEO, they’ll hitch a ride in with another vessel.”

“No, I got that,” Pete says, almost a mirror of Gabe with the confusion lurking just behind his smile. “I mean Urie and Way. I thought you were dropping them off before you got under way.”

Gabe looks to Alex for confirmation. “They should already be there, or close,” he says when Alex nods. “Didn’t we send you the itinerary?”

“I thought maybe you’d had a change of plans,” Pete says. “They’re not here yet.”

Gabe swings around to face Alex, who’s already typing in commands. “They should have arrived over an hour ago,” he reports.

Gabe turns back to face the screen, smiling wide. “Give us a few minutes,” he tells Pete. “We’ll get back to you.”

Ryan cuts transmission the second Gabe’s hand waves, and he’s opening channels before the next command even comes.

“Get Urie on com,” Gabe orders. “Find out where the fuck they are.”

Spencer makes lists in his mind of all of the stupid things Brendon could have been distracted by, all the reasons he could be running late and not realize anyone else would care. There are a surprising number of them, honestly. Brendon has a mini-sub and an ocean full of rarely-seen species; he could stay entertained for days.

The lists fade from his mind when Ryan says, “They’re not answering their radio, and the emergency backup isn’t working.”

“Can you get a read on their location?” Gabe asks, taking the few steps up to hover behind Ryan’s station like he always does when something’s gone wrong. Spencer tries not to think about what that means.

“They’re not transmitting,” Ryan says a second later. “No distress signals, no acoustic noise, nothing.”

“Smith,” Gabe orders, and Spencer’s already in motion, deploying WSKRS and starting sonar sweeps. “Ryland, make sure we’re full of air, we’re going under again. Alex, chart their course, I want to know exactly where they were supposed to be. Let’s follow them down.”

-

When Spencer’s sonar sweeps come up empty for the fifteenth time, he starts working backwards. It feels like far too long before he works back to the time Brendon left and then forward again until he catches the blip on the corner of his screen that he never noticed before.

“Captain,” he says, and Gabe’s there almost before he finishes the word.

“Got something?” Gabe asks.

“I’m not sure,” Spencer says honestly. “It’s not another vessel, and it’s only there for a second, but there’s a…shadow. Sonar sweeps picked it up, but it didn’t make enough noise to warrant an alert.”

“Another mini-sub?” Gabe asks, leaning closer to look.

“I don’t think so,” Spencer answers. “This is the mini-sub here, right at the edge of the screen, before they dropped off our map. This is the shadow.” He clicks forward, and they both watch as the shadow blinks closer to the sub and then disappears.

“Is that the sub, or the shadow?” Gabe asks, squinting at the tail end of the last image they have. It’s a gray blur, fuzzy around the edges, and Spencer can’t honestly say for sure.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe both. They were on a collision course.”

“You think it was a torpedo?” Gabe asks, although they both know that’s unlikely. Spencer would have known for hours if there’d been a torpedo in the water.

“I think…” Spencer begins, and has to take a deep breath before he can say it. “Remember when you were asking me if I’d seen a fifty foot octopus?”

“It’s that big?” Gabe asks, and Spencer nods. Gabe snaps his fingers at Alex. “Get me Wentz.”

Ryan’s fast; Pete’s on their screen less than two minutes later. “Any word?” he asks, and Spencer realizes that this is the first time he’s seen Pete when he wasn’t smiling. He looks worried.

“We’ve got a shadow on our sonar more than fifty feet across,” Gabe says. “Any idea what that might be?”

Pete looks startled, then shakes his head. “No, no way. Our squid aren’t anywhere near that big, and they’re bred to be non-aggressive and domestic. There’s no way they’d attack a sub.”

“Ours wouldn’t,” someone else says, and there’s a brief flurry of motion before Pete moves aside and Patrick steps up next to him, peering into the camera. “How was it moving? I need to see.”

“Sending you the data now,” Gabe says, finger crooking in Spencer’s direction. Spencer types out the commands, gets a link from Patrick and hits ‘send.’

“Oh wow,” Pete says a second later. “Could it be a whale?”

Patrick seems dubious. “It could be, but bowheads are several times that size and shy as a rule. I think your first guess was closer.”

This is the point at which Brendon would usually break in, either over com or simply showing up on the bridge, to tell them why they were wrong and what they were really dealing with. Spencer suddenly keenly feels the loss.

“Colossal squid range from Antarctica north to South America,” Patrick says, pushing his glasses up further on his nose. “And they can get that big.”

“Would they be able to take down a submarine?” Gabe asks.

“No,” Pete says. “Fuck no.”

“It depends on how small the submarine was,” Patrick says over Pete’s protests. “And how hungry they were.”

“Fuck,” Ryland says with feeling.

“We’ll do what we can from here,” Patrick says, nudging Pete the rest of the way out of view. “I’ll keep you informed of anything we come up with. Let us know if you find them.”

“Will do,” Gabe says, and gestures for Ryan to cut the transmission. “Smith,” he orders grimly, “find me that fucking squid.”

-

“I’m really not sure about this,” Brendon says, but it doesn’t stop him from loading the flare. Gerard looks confident, but Brendon’s beginning to think that’s just because he’s incapable of feeling fear.

“If we shoot it out far enough, it should follow the light,” Gerard promises. “That’s what I would do, anyway.”

“If you were a squid?” Brendon asks. His hands are shaking, but the easy banter helps a little, takes his mind off of the fact that they’re in complete blackness and being held captive by a hungry squid big enough to make the two of them look like a light snack.

“The problem is going to be getting it out without hitting any of the arms,” Gerard says. “We don’t want to piss it off, just get rid of it. Can you tell if there’s anything blocking the way?”

“Not without turning on the computer to get the sensors running,” Brendon answers. “And that involves an awful lot of lights.”

“Right,” Gerard says. He looks at the dark console, then back at Brendon. “Take your best guess.”

Brendon locks the flare into one of the release tubes, trying to picture where the squid’s arms are in relation to the grinding sound coming from the back that identifies the location of its sharp, pointy beak. “Cross your fingers,” he says, and pushes the button to launch.

They can’t see anything, but there’s a low groan drowning out the hiss of the flare igniting, and then the sub tilts sharply to starboard. Brendon tries to catch himself on the open doorway to the cabin and misses, tumbling across the deck to slam headfirst into the opposite wall. It hurts, sharp enough that he can’t think for a second, and then his vision clears – not that it’s much of a change, but he can see Gerard’s penlight – and the pain in his skull settles into a fierce, aching throb.

“Are you okay?” Gerard calls, and Brendon swallows, managing to croak out, “Yeah.”

“I don’t think we made it,” Gerard says, which Brendon already knew from the nails-on-chalkboard sound of the squid’s hooks dragging angrily across their hull.

“We’ve got one more,” he says, and pulls himself up the deck until he can reach the second flare. Loading it is even harder this time, with the pain in his head, but his hands are steadier. The adrenaline must be kicking in. _About fucking time_ , Brendon thinks.

He locks the flare into the third release tube, a few feet down from where he can hear hooks scraping across metal, and slaps his palm flat over the launch button.

There’s no hiss, and no groan. The second flare is dead in the water.

Brendon stares at the bulkhead for a few seconds, and then says shakily, “We need a new plan.”

“Fuck,” Gerard says. The light dances across the inside of the sub as he moves, running his hands through his hair and tugging it back. “This is your boat. What have you got?”

“Not much,” Brendon admits. “A mini-sub isn’t exactly a fully-equipped warship.”

There’s no warning; they’re still one second, and the next they’re being shaken, like carbon bubbles in a soda can. Brendon catches the doorframe this time but the momentum swings him past it, slamming him full-force into the bulkhead. He feels something in his hand crunch in a way it’s really not supposed to, then pain flares bright red up his right arm.

He can’t tell whether it hurts more or less than his head, just that the combined force of both is threatening to drive black spikes through his eyes and make him puke. It takes far too long for him to gasp through it, until he can suck in enough breath to call, “Gerard?”

“Fuck,” Gerard says weakly out of the darkness. “Fucking shit cocksucking motherfucker.”

Brendon agrees heartily with all of the above. “This is not how I wanted to die,” he says. Even to his own ears it sounds plaintive, too much like desperation. “I was going to be old and infirm, surrounded by smiling people who loved me.”

“There’s something poetic about being killed by one of the creatures you’re studying, though,” Gerard points out. His voice is laced with pain as well; Brendon wonders if he has enough strength to crawl over and make sure Gerard’s okay, or if he should just sit tight in case the squid decides to play shake-the-submarine again.

“I’m too young to die,” Brendon argues. “And I would never expect to be murdered by a pack of bloodthirsty pinnipeds.”

Gerard laughs, dry and croaking but a real laugh nonetheless. “This is where pacifism gets us,” he says. “Lunch for the less discriminating.”

Brendon thinks that if he could go back in time, he would totally kill a squid now to do an autopsy and not even feel bad about it. He would kill this one in a heartbeat.

Then he blinks slowly and says, “I have an idea.”

-

“This is a terrible idea,” Gerard comments when Brendon explains.

“I know,” Brendon says honestly. “Do you have a better one?”

“No,” Gerard admits. “I just think we need to work on the details. When you say ‘let’s electrify the submarine,’ you do realize that we’re in it, right?”

“We can find something to stand on,” Brendon says. His mind is completely clear, floating above the constant throb of his arm and head. Endorphins are _amazing._

“Yeah, that will work,” Gerard agrees. “Right up until the squid starts seizing from the current we’re pumping through its body and shakes us into a metal bulkhead.”

“We’re still sinking,” Brendon points out. “We’re running out of time. Do you feel bad about killing it?”

“I’m not feeling particularly humanitarian at the moment,” Gerard says honestly. “Fry the motherfucker.”

“Find us somewhere to stand,” Brendon says. He gropes his way to the main console, and then pauses over the controls. “There’s a chance,” he says slowly, clearing his throat, “that if I overload the circuits and electrocute the whole system, the backup generator will go too, and we won’t have power.”

There’s some shuffling behind him, and then Gerard’s hand on his back as he leans in to look. “Do we need power?” he asks.

The rudder’s fucked anyway. The air in the emergency canisters can be released manually, a precaution taken for electrical emergencies like the one they’re about to stage. The only thing they won’t have is communication or sensors, and neither is going to do them any good if they don’t get rid of this squid.

“No,” Brendon decides, and starts pulling out wires.

Gerard claps him on the back, and disappears back into the aft section. “Can you get back here in time after throwing the switch?” he calls. “I think I’ve found us a place to ride it out.”

Brendon considers the distance and the length of the wires. “Yes,” he says finally. “Maybe.”

“Stick with yes,” Gerard advises.

The boat tilts forward a few more degrees, and Brendon grabs onto the console with his bad hand before he remembers not to. The pain almost blacks him out, but he breathes through it and concentrates on the wires.

He hears the hull creak, a long, low groan that means they’re getting too deep. Wiping the sweat off of his forehead – his shirt is drenched, wet and plastered to his skin – he calls back, “Ready?”

“Ready,” Gerard says, and kicks something his way. Brendon catches it and flips it over, squinting to make it out in the darkness. It’s a sheet of plastic, unscrewed from the bulkhead, _DO NOT REMOVE_ in bold lettering above the safety instructions for the emergency air tanks.

He steps onto it carefully, gauging the distance and hoping to hell he doesn’t miss the doorway, because if he does, the only thing he can catch himself on is the metal frame.

“Here goes nothing,” he whispers under his breath, and then counts out loud for Gerard: “Three. Two. One.”

It makes a lot more noise than he’d expected when the electricity goes haywire. The squid jerks almost immediately, pitching them sideways as it goes rigid. Brendon skids across the deck and misses his target by inches, knocking into the side of the doorway and losing his balance on impact. He sees the metal deck plates crackling up close and personal before Gerard yanks him upwards, both hands beneath Brendon’s armpits to lift him into the narrow fold-out bunk and roll him away from the flying sparks.

Gerard throws himself sideways with enough force to snap the bunk back into the wall, and Brendon is nearly crushed against him in the tight space. It’s stifling in the dark, heat rising from the metal plates just inches from their skin, the smell of singed wires and overheated metal threatening to choke them even muffled in bedding.

Brendon can’t tell when it ends, exactly, but eventually he lifts his head from where it’s mashed against Gerard’s neck and says, “Do you think it’s dead?”

“I think sea water is a great conductor,” Gerard says. He starts laughing, borderline hysteria like the kind that’s rising up in Brendon’s chest, trying to strangle him. “Jesus fuck.”

Brendon gives it another five minutes, at least, to be sure, and then jams his elbow against the side of the bunk until Gerard gets enough leverage to help him get free. The smell of burnt plastic and metal is instantly stronger, and Brendon gags when he tries to inhale.

He gropes for the emergency oxygen masks, passing one to Gerard and pressing the other over his face, breathing in deeply until the pure oxygen cleanses the acrid smoke from his lungs. It’s too hot to try to step out of the bunk; Brendon can tell by the half-melted sheet of plastic fused to the deck at his feet.

Gerard is still pressed along the entire length of his body, and his arm wraps around Brendon’s waist and pats his side reassuringly. Brendon doesn’t think he’s ever been so grateful for human contact in his life.

He blinks the tears out of smoke-stung, watery eyes, coughs and croaks, “What now?”

Gerard’s chin rests on his shoulder as he peers out to survey the damage. Brendon can feel it when he inhales. “Now we wait.”

-

By this point, Spencer thinks he could probably see sonar scans on the backs of his eyelids, and none of the results have changed. There’s no sign of a mini-sub anywhere, and they’ve scoured this corner of the ocean so many times Spencer has memorized the terrain.

“Anything?” Alex asks, just as he has every ten minutes for the past forty-five, and Spencer shakes his head.

Ryan’s looking at him intently, and Spencer doesn’t know what he wants until he realizes his com settings are still on public-only, so Ryan can’t talk to him. He flips the switch and says, “Hey.”

“I don’t think Brendon’s coming back,” Ryan says without inflection.

“Shut up,” Spencer says immediately. He doesn’t get quiet and maudlin when he’s upset like Ryan does; he gets angry. It seems more productive, somehow. He’s pretty angry right now.

“We’ve been looking for an hour, Spence,” Ryan insists.

“Seriously, shut the fuck up,” Spencer replies, risking a look out of the corner of his eye at Ryan’s station, seeing the tight lines of unhappiness around his mouth. “That doesn’t mean anything. They can’t have gone far.”

“I didn’t say anything to him,” Ryan says, and Spencer wants to bang his head – or Ryan’s head – against the console in frustration. He’s glad Ryan is finally realizing what a dick he is where Brendon’s concerned, but now isn’t the best time for the revelation.

“Save it,” he says. “You can tell him when he gets back.”

Ryan frowns, and Spencer knows he doesn’t believe it. Ryan doesn’t hope for things; he doesn’t like dealing with the disappointment.

“Take it easy, guys,” Alex’s voice breaks in, and Spencer looks over automatically to see him at his station, solemn but nowhere near hopeless. “I gave Brendon his pilot’s exam myself, he knows what he’s doing. Even if something went wrong out there, he can handle it.”

“How do you handle a giant squid?” Ryan asks, and it’s not a joke, but at the same time, Spencer almost wants to laugh. Or cry, one of the two.

“They’ve got enough air to last for hours, even if they’re scuttled,” Alex reassures. “We’ll have found them by then.”

Spencer turns back to his station, not wanting to see the expectant hope in Alex’s eyes, or the complete lack of the same in Ryan’s. He’s reaching for the controls to do another sonar sweep when one of the WSKRS lights up like a Christmas tree and sends alarms pinging through his headset.

Electricity shocks his fingers where they rest on the console, and from the startled exclamations of those around him, he’s guessing he wasn’t the only one.

“Smith,” Gabe says immediately.

“Shock wave in the water,” Spencer replies even before he’s brought up the WSKRS data. It only confirms his report, scrolling across his screen in black and green, recording the levels of the surge. “Not a depth charge, something a lot smaller. Looks like an EM wave. Possibly an electrical malfunction from Clandestine.”

“It’s not them,” Ryan says, frowning. “They just called over to ask us.”

“What do we think it was, then?” Ryland asks. He and Alex have a moment of silent communication across the bridge, and Spencer knows Alex is thinking the same thing he is. There’s nothing else down here, besides them and the research facility.

“I think,” he says carefully, trying to keep his voice level. “I think it was Brendon.”

-

“Tell me you’ve got something,” Gabe says as soon as Ryan puts the hail through to the main screen.

Patrick frowns into the camera, pushing his glasses up with one finger. “I think we found your squid,” he says.

The expression on his face doesn’t make it seem likely that the squid was found with mini-sub intact. Spencer tries to swallow around the lump in his throat and consciously eases the death-grip his fingers have on the sensor controls.

Gabe doesn’t look like he knows how to ask the next question. “And?” he prompts finally.

“It’s dead,” Patrick says. “Not just dead, it’s been cooked from the inside out. Probably electrocution.”

Spencer’s fingers twitch on his console with the sense-memory of shock. He hears Ryan’s breathing through his com, unnaturally harsh in his ear.

“You think it ran into the mini-sub?” Gabe asks neutrally. Alex is already shaking his head.

“It would have taken more than a collision.” Patrick hesitates, then says, “Sometimes, when animals chew through wires…”

Spencer thinks he can feel his heart actually stop.

“Nothing in the stomach contents though, right?” Gabe asks. “No metal, nothing…” _Nothing human,_ Spencer finishes for him silently.

“We’ve only done a basic autopsy,” Patrick answers. “It definitely had a run-in with a boat recently, there are parts of what might be a rudder and some computer chips, probably from communications equipment and external sensors.”

“Show me,” Gabe says.

Patrick fumbles around for a moment and comes up with a metal fragment, which he presses against the lens of the camera. The triangular logo is scratched and burnt but unmistakable.

“Fuck,” someone says. Spencer thinks it could have been Ryland, or Alex, or both together.

“It doesn’t mean anything for sure,” Gabe says at once, and Spencer knows he’s speaking to his crew more than Patrick. “The rudder could have broken off and left the sub intact. There were no bones, right?”

“Nothing human,” Patrick says.

“If they’ve lost their rudder, they probably can’t navigate,” Alex interjects. “We should start looking closer to the sea floor.”

“We’ve got a team out as well,” Patrick informs them. “If they’re anywhere close to us, we’ll bring them in. But this entire landscape is karstified, it’s not just the sinkhole that brought you to us. If they find one of those, we could be within feet of them and never know it.”

“We’ll keep looking,” Gabe says. “Thanks for the call.”

Ryan cuts off the transmission, and there’s a moment of silence. Spencer doesn’t want to be the one to break it, but he can’t stop himself.

“If it chewed through the wires and electrified the sub…” he says.

“We don’t know anything for sure,” Gabe says again, but that’s a lie. Nothing else that makes sense could have caused that shock wave.

“They’re dead,” he says, and the words don’t actually mean anything the way he thought they would, out loud. They don’t taste like ash in his mouth or ring hollow in his ears. They’re just words.

“This is still a rescue mission,” Gabe says, before anyone can say anything else. “We keep looking. Smith, take half an hour. Ross, you too. Everyone, take a break, call your replacements for the next thirty minutes. Then I want you back here with clear heads.”

Spencer can’t move. His body is frozen in place, every beep from his sensor array coming though crystal-clear.

“Out,” Gabe says again, when no one moves. “I mean it. Everyone but Ryland and Alex, get the fuck off my bridge.”

Spencer moves, finally, but he doesn’t know where he’s going. He follows Ryan through the hatch, and then by some unspoken decision, they take the turn towards the science deck.

-

Frank’s really looking for Bob, but when he sees Ray and Victoria talking in the corridor, voices lowered and expressions bleak, he decides that’s the next best thing.

“Hey,” he says, when they fall silent at his approach. “What’s going on? The whole boat’s buzzing, but no one seems to know.”

“They’ve lost contact with the mini-sub,” Victoria says. Her voice is soft, as always, but there are also smudges on the usually sharp lines of her mascara. “They’re saying maybe there was an electrical accident or something.”

Frank’s brain takes a second to whir through that. “Wait, seriously? They think it’s gone down somewhere?”

“They don’t know,” Ray says. Every inch of him is bristling with unhappiness, but he still seems to be keeping it together, putting a supportive arm around Victoria when she covers her face with her hands for a moment and then wipes hastily at her eyes.

“Fuck,” Frank says, shocked. “Brendon and Gerard?”

Ray shrugs. Victoria blinks rapidly, looking up at the ceiling. She finally says, “No one’s heard from them since they left the boat. Their computer is down.”

“We’re on standby, in case there’s anything we can do,” Ray says. “They said probably not, at this point, but you never know.”

“Yeah,” Frank says automatically. He’s reeling still, not sure what to do. He wants to do _something._ He can understand Ray’s need to volunteer.

“They’re sending out the Sea Crabs to search,” Ray says. “There are lists, if you want to sign up. They’re going out in shifts.”

“I can’t,” Frank says reluctantly, frustrated even though he knows it’s the truth. “I’m not enlisted.”

“They’re letting us do stuff too,” Victoria tells him. “Looking through the data from the sensors, that sort of thing. Just talk to Maja, she’s organizing it.”

“Okay, yeah,” Frank says, although he knows he’s still useless for anything more than manual labor. There’s not much a nutritionist can do when it comes to scientific data analysis. “They still think there’s a chance, though. It’s still a search-and-rescue mission.”

“Officially,” Ray says, and Victoria looks like she’s going to start crying again, but turns away before either of them can see. “They’ve got a recovery team on standby too, though, just in case.”

“Fuck,” Frank says again. Then, “But they could be out there somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Ray says, nodding firmly. “That’s what we’re all hoping.”

“Thanks,” Frank says. Then he goes to find Mikey.

-

Mikey doesn’t look thrilled to see him coming, but he also obviously already knows, if the reddened eyes are any indication.

“What?” he asks when Frank sits down across from him. “I already told them I’m not joining a search team. They have enough people.”

Frank leans forward, intent. “Are they alive?” he asks.

“How would I know?” Mikey asks. It sounds like an honest question, but Frank isn’t deterred.

“If anyone would know, you would,” Frank insists. “I was there for that conversation with William, remember?”

Mikey’s eyes dart to one side. “I just see random shit that’s not useful,” he says. “That’s why I never got training. I can’t help.”

“Apparently random shit is what a lot of psychics see,” Frank tells him. “That doesn’t mean it’s not useful.”

“You have a trained parapsychologist on board,” Mikey says, hunching over. “Isn’t he already trying to find them?”

“Probably,” Frank admits, because he’s sure Gabe has already told Travis, who’s told William, and William is probably having a migraine right now trying to force a vision. “But you have a personal connection.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Mikey says. “Ask the expert.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Frank says, “William’s great for telling us when to get our heads out of our asses and sorting out our personal shit, and occasionally finding buried pirate treasure, but he’s a shitty-ass psychic. There’s maybe a chance in a million that he can locate a downed submarine, especially when he knows the people on board.”

“The odds are about the same, then,” Mikey points out. “I don’t even know how to turn it on and off, I’m not going to be any better.”

“Maybe not alone,” Frank allows. “But the odds are a fucking lot better if you work together.”

Mikey studies him for a moment. “You really think I can do this,” he says finally.

Frank pushes his chair back from the table. “He’s your brother,” he says firmly. “I know you can.”

-

“I’d better have a big funeral,” Brendon announces from where he’s cradled in the curved dome of the aft viewport. “I want everyone to be there. And Dylan. Dylan should be allowed to come. Maybe they’ll have it by the moon pool on the science deck.”

“I’m not sure if I’d want Lugosi to be there or not,” Gerard admits beside him, fingers laced behind his head as he looks up at the ceiling. “I don’t think he would particularly care, to be honest.”

“Dylan would care,” Brendon says firmly. “More than some people.”

Gerard looks sideways at him. “You’re starting to plan your own funeral,” he points out. “Should I be worried?”

Brendon takes a moment to consider that, but he’s feeling really good, actually. The painkillers they found in the medical kit have kicked in, and now that they’re not in immediate mortal peril, he’s feeling very relaxed about the whole thing. The main computer and the backup generator are both completely fried, so they’re dead in the water, but it’s not like anything’s trying to eat them.

“We have enough air for at least four more hours,” he says, and nods towards Gerard’s bandaged ribs and elevated ankle. “More if the painkillers wear off and one of us passes out.” It’s not likely to happen, but anything’s possible. If they do get into desperate straits, Brendon can always use the sedatives from the kit to put them both into induced comas. That will buy them at least thirty more minutes. He doesn’t want to do it yet, though. There are too many options they haven’t explored.

“You think it will take them that long to find us?” Gerard asks. He shifts to scratch the side of his nose and winces at the pull against his side. “Four hours is a long time.”

“Spencer will find us,” Brendon says confidently, because that much he’s sure of. He’s less sure of when, but he knows that Spencer will find them eventually. As soon as possible.

“They might not even know we’re missing,” Gerard muses. “Maybe they think we’re on the island.”

“Nah,” Brendon says lazily, rolling onto his side and curling up. The glass is cool against his cheek, comforting. “Someone will notice we’re missing.”

“Spencer?” Gerard asks, half-smiling, and it takes a few seconds for Brendon to interpret the tone of his voice.

“No,” he says hastily. “It’s not, I mean. Spencer’s not. He’s Jon’s. Or was. They broke up. I think they’re still perfect together, just maybe they were trying to be too much for each other or something. Jon got jealous of Ryan, and Spencer was…” He realizes he’s babbling and cuts himself off, before he starts off on a drug-assisted ramble about his friends’ relationship dynamics. “It’s complicated,” he says instead.

“Hmm,” Gerard says noncommittally. “I don’t know, he looked pretty into you.”

“Jon,” Brendon explains. His cheeks are a little warm, thinking about it, but that’s just because the glass is cold. Or something.

Gerard scrunches up his nose at the ceiling. “Maybe if they have our funerals on board your boat, Dr. Iero will be at mine,” he says, and Brendon doesn’t think he’s imagining the dreamy lilt to Gerard’s voice. He does think it might be heavily influenced by the painkillers.

“Frank’s awesome,” Brendon says loyally. “He makes me grilled tofu steaks with orange-ginger marinade every two weeks, even though no one else really eats them. Except Alex,” he adds, “but Alex doesn’t really like tofu.”

“I always thought tofu should be a fighting style,” Gerard comments. “To-fu.”

Brendon giggles. “The way of the sponge,” he says, and Gerard grins at him.

“I’m worried about Mikey,” Gerard says suddenly. “Leaving him alone. He’s special.”

“Good-special or bad-special?” Brendon asks. He thinks Mikey might be a little of both, but Gerard seems to really love him. Brendon wishes he had someone like that, who didn’t want to leave him on his own in the world.

“Good,” Gerard says emphatically. “He’s a fuckin’ genius. And talented. He can see things, you know? He sees crazy shit. More than you and I ever will, even in the ocean.”

“Yeah,” Brendon agrees, although he’s not sure what that means, exactly. Maybe Mikey has artistic vision or something. “It must be nice to have family.”

He sounds wistful, even to his own ears, and Gerard must think so as well, because he shifts awkwardly until he can put a hand on Brendon’s arm. “Hey,” he says. “You have family too, they’re just different. They all came to see you off when you left.”

Brendon snorts. “Right,” he says. “Ryan didn’t even come to say goodbye, he just came to give me a stupid radio…”

He trails off as he realizes what he’s just said. A stupid portable radio. A stupid portable emergency radio with batteries, which Brendon had thrown directly into the storage locker because he’d been upset and hadn’t wanted to think about it.

Gerard sits up when Brendon scrambles out over him. “What?” he asks, eyes wide.

“I think I have another plan,” Brendon says as he jerks open the warped handle of the storage locker. “But I might need some help.”

-

“The batteries won’t work in there,” Brendon says, discarding yet another piece of useless, charred equipment. “Well, maybe. Hang on, give them to me.”

“How do you know all this?” Gerard asks curiously, peering over Brendon’s shoulder at the pile of spare parts he has strewn across the deck.

“I like to learn things,” Brendon says, shrugging a little. “It keeps my mind occupied so I don’t think too much. And I watch Ryan and Spencer when they do stuff for me. Hey, can you hand me that microphone?”

“I thought the radio ran on batteries,” Gerard says as Brendon sorts through a handful of wires, separating the possibly still good from the completely worthless.

“It does,” Brendon answers. “But we don’t have a communications array anymore, which is what it’s meant to hook up to. We need to make an antenna, and then find some way of attaching a microphone.”

“Microphone.” Gerard passes it over with wires still dangling from the base. “You think we can reach someone with a four-foot antenna?”

“They’ll have to be close,” Brendon admits. He tucks a wire between his teeth to hold it steady, and winces when his right hand can’t disconnect the socket he’s scavenging from the old system. Spitting out the wire, he says glumly, “You’re going to have to do this, I can’t manage it.”

Thankfully, Gerard doesn’t immediately go into a panic upon being given what’s basically a box with a whole lot of semi-useless parts sticking out of it. “You realize I don’t know what any of this is, right?” he says.

“I’ll talk you through it,” Brendon promises. “This part is easy.”

Gerard snorts, but he puts the penlight in his mouth so they can see what they’re doing while he works, and then the two of them start putting together a microphone hookup.

Brendon’s frankly impressed by his own genius and thoroughly optimistic, until he sees the inside of the microphone and what used to be working computer circuitry. “Uh,” he says blankly, staring in dismay at the blackened fusion of plastic and metal. “Shit.”

“Can we use anything else?” Gerard asks. He has the antenna assembled and attached to the portable radio, waiting on Brendon for the last piece. Transmitting nothing won’t really help anyone find them.

Brendon thinks through every last single piece of equipment they have on board, and comes up blank. “No,” he says finally. “I don’t know how to build a microphone.”

“What if we transmit something else?” Gerard suggests. “Like Morse code.”

“I don’t know Morse code,” Brendon admits. “Do you?”

Gerard shakes his head.

“We’d need a microphone anyway,” Brendon says disappointedly. “Any noise we make needs to be picked up by a transmitter. The only thing we could use is a prerecorded message, like a standard emergency broadcast, and they all went out with the main computer.”

“Maybe we could listen to music on the radio instead,” Gerard says, a weak attempt at a joke since Brendon knows his hopes have just fallen as far as Brendon’s own. “Pass the time.”

Brendon opens his mouth to respond, and then a light bulb switches on in his head. “In my bag,” he says, because he’s buried under radio equipment and his equilibrium is shaky anyway. “In the back, third pouch in the front. There’s an mp3 player and a mini-disc marked ‘Songs for Dylan.’”

Gerard is already up and moving, one arm wrapped tight around his ribs. “Won’t Dylan miss it?” he asks from the back, over the sounds of rustling and unzipping.

“He already has a copy,” Brendon answers, holding up his left hand for the player. “I thought it might help if I got homesick.”

He puts the mini-disc in and flips it over, prying the back compartment open, and then drops his head back against the bulkhead and swears. “Fuck.”

“What?” Gerard asks, instantly at his side, hand hovering in case Brendon needs help. “What’s wrong? Did it get melted?”

“No, it’s fine,” Brendon says, and laughs a little at how ridiculous he is. “I forgot to pack batteries.”

“You have…” Gerard begins, and then shuts his mouth. Brendon thinks they’ve probably just realized the same thing; that one set of batteries will power a radio, but not an mp3 player on top of it.

“Fuck,” Brendon says again. He can’t believe he was this stupid. Spencer always tells him not to forget things like this. Why didn’t Spencer help him pack?

He looks at Gerard, hopelessness still warring with determination, and then realizes he’s _looking at Gerard._ Because Gerard is still holding a penlight.

“Your flashlight,” Brendon says urgently. “Triple A?”

Gerard’s eyes widen, and then he’s practically ripping open the battery compartment on the light. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, hands poised, and says, “It’s about to get very dark in here.”

“I can manage,” Brendon promises. “I’m very dexterous.”

“Okay,” Gerard agrees, and the cabin goes completely black.

Brendon fumbles a little hooking the player up to the radio, but he gets the batteries in with no problem, and then the whole thing lights up, glowing a soft, eerie blue.

“So there’s a microphone in there?” Gerard asks, leaning in to look at the mp3 player in Brendon’s hands.

Brendon shakes his head and presses play. “We don’t need one,” he says. “We’ve already got the message.”

-

Ryan’s in the middle, because while Spencer and Jon are on friendlier terms now, they’re still not to the point of cuddling. Ryan, on the other hand, wants some damn cuddles. Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

“I didn’t say anything,” he says morosely, staring down into the water. Dylan is somewhere nearby, floating listlessly around the edge of the pool. Jon says it’s because he can sense when people are upset, but Ryan thinks he probably misses Brendon. Ryan can relate.

“He knows,” Jon says calmly. His bare feet are in the water, trailing streams of bubbles when he kicks them. Ryan thinks it must be cool to be a scientist and wear cut-off jeans and t-shirts all the time.

“He might not, though,” Ryan argues, without any real force behind it. “I should have said that him leaving would feel like a loss, because it does. Feel like a loss.”

Spencer squeezes his thigh. Ryan leans towards him a little. Just a little, though, because he still wants to be close to Jon.

“I’m sorry I kissed Brendon,” Spencer says suddenly. Ryan blinks, but the comment is directed over his head, towards Jon.

“I’m sorry I kissed Ryan,” Jon returns agreeably.

Spencer blinks. “You kissed Ryan?”

“No,” Jon admits. “But I could if it would make you feel better.”

Spencer stares for a second, then starts laughing. Ryan feels the tension in his shoulders ease, just a little. He’d been jealous and annoyed when Spencer and Jon were together, but it was almost worse having them apart. He isn’t sure what he wants anymore.

“I think Brendon’s been waiting for me,” he says eventually. He feels Jon and Spencer exchange a look over his head, but doesn’t look up to interpret it. He thinks he probably doesn’t want to know.

“You had your shit to sort out,” Spencer finally says. “He’s a patient guy.”

“We all had to sort our shit out,” Jon agrees, stretching back onto his elbows, dipping his feet in and out of the water with tiny rippling splashes.

Ryan can feel Spencer’s smile without even looking, warming the side of his face even though it’s not directed at him. He almost turns his head to look, because it’s been a while since he’s seen that smile, but this one is meant for Jon.

“It’s a work-in-progress,” Spencer says, arm warm against Ryan’s when he leans in to bump shoulders. “He’ll forgive you.”

“I still have to kiss you, though,” Jon says, smile teasing up the corners of his mouth. “So that I can properly apologize for it.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling again, and this time Ryan lets himself look. Jon’s arm wraps around his waist, squeezing him briefly into a hug. Ryan relaxes a little bit more, and they sit in silence for a while, just listening to the water and the occasional puff of air when Dylan surfaces to breathe.

Then Ryan frowns and asks, “Are you guys holding hands behind my back?”

“No,” Jon obviously lies, but he also doesn’t move, even though Spencer shifts as if he’s going to let go. “We’re providing a support network.”

Ryan snorts. Spencer grins, and after a second, leans in again to nudge Ryan’s arm. “Hey,” he says quietly. “You know we’re getting him back, right?”

Ryan tilts his head and frowns up at the high-domed ceiling, contemplating. Finally he says, “Yeah, I know.” He’s not sure if he means it yet, but he really wants to. That has to be worth something.

-

Frank is about the last person Ryan expects to see on the bridge, especially in the middle of a crisis. He’s flanked by Mikey the biologist and William, which only makes it more bizarre. Ryan can see Gabe’s eyebrows go up, and thinks _this ought to be good._

“We think we might be able to find them,” William announces, and suddenly they have Ryan’s full attention.

They obviously have Gabe’s as well. “You’ve seen something?” he asks.

“Mikey has. Well, he hasn’t seen something, exactly, but he has a feeling.” William pushes his hair back, looking as earnest as ever, and Ryan’s stomach tries to sink, but he’s not honestly sure whether this is better or worse.

“A feeling,” Gabe echoes. Ryan has to give him credit for making that sound much less dubious than it should.

“Give him a chance,” Frank says, shoulders squared, looking ready to fight anyone who says a negative word. “It’s more than any of the rest of us have.”

Everyone is silent for a moment while Gabe mulls it over, and then he says, “Helm’s all yours.”

Mikey doesn’t look thrilled at being the center of attention, much less in charge of the boat, but he shifts a little in place and then says, “I think we need to go right.”

Ryland seems to realize that the helmsman is waiting for more accurate instructions, clears his throat and says, “Ninety degrees to starboard.”

William sits on the deck, folding his long legs up under him, and somehow manages to look perfectly serene and calm. Frank is still bristling with energy, but it’s focused now, all of his attention on Mikey.

They all wait, and after a few minutes Mikey’s face scrunches up and he twists to look at William. They have a second of silent communication, and something goes down Ryan’s spine, like a trickle of drying sweat.

“I need everyone to think of the color blue,” William announces suddenly.

“What…?” Spencer begins, puzzled.

“Do it,” Gabe orders, turning back to William. “Does it matter what shade?”

“The ocean,” William says. “Think about the ocean.”

Ryan exchanges a look with Spencer, then obediently thinks about the ocean. It’s not all that exciting, but then he remembers that Brendon is out there lost somewhere, and he becomes a whole lot more emotionally invested.

“Still too distracting,” Mikey says finally.

“Everyone,” Frank says. “Everyone on the boat. This is important.”

Ryan sees Ryland’s eyebrows climb to his hairline, a question directed across the bridge at Gabe, who nods. “Attention all crew and passengers,” Ryland announces into the open com, and Jesus Christ, this is the most ridiculous thing Ryan has ever done, even on board a submarine.

“Focus on him,” William says, voice soft but still carrying easily with everyone else practically holding their breath. “Everything else is background noise.”

“Third eye,” Mikey mutters, like he’s repeating instructions, hands balled into loose fists at his sides. Then he says suddenly, “Stop.”

Gabe’s hand flies up, calling them to a halt. There’s a low grinding rumble as the engine cuts out, and then Mikey says, “To the left and down. Not much.”

“We’ve already searched this area,” Spencer says reluctantly, fingers poised over his console.

“Do it,” Gabe says again, nodding to Ryland. “And keep thinking blue.”

“Blue,” Ryan says under his breath, but his thoughts aren’t focusing very well right now. He’d almost let himself think, for a minute there, that this was going to work.

“Ocean,” William sings out, and just a second behind him, Mikey says, “Stop. Right again.”

Spencer’s shaking his head. Ryan turns back to his station, unable to look at how hard they’re all trying, chasing a ghost needle in a haystack.

Then he hears singing.

He reaches for his headset controls and turns the volume up, frowning. For a second he almost thinks it’s William, or that he imagined it in the ambient acoustic noise, but then he catches it again, thready but definitely there.

“Stop,” Mikey says in the background. “Down.”

“ _All you need is love…_ ” comes through Ryan’s speakers, louder by the second.

“Brendon,” Ryan says.

“What is it?” Gabe asks, appearing behind him in a heartbeat.

“I think…” Ryan says, not yet willing to believe it, but the tracking system kicks in a split-second later with a blip on his screen barely three hundred feet away. “I’ve got them,” he says, voice laced with disbelief.

He flips the switch to channel the com through the main speakers, and the entire bridge is suddenly flooded with a familiar refrain.

“ _Love is all you need._ ”

-

Gabe tries to be at the forefront of the group waiting to make sure Urie and Dr. Way are all right, but as soon as the pressure hatch opens, he’s nearly stampeded by half of his crew trying to get there first.

“Out of my way,” Dr. Salpeter orders when the surge happens, keeping her place with judicious and aggressive use of elbows. “Let me check them over.”

“We’re okay,” Urie’s voice floats up from the hatch, and he appears a minute later, looking battered but more or less fine. Dr. Salpeter opens her mouth to say something, but Urie is dogpiled a second later by Smith, Walker, and Ross, of all people, so Gabe thinks she might have to use those elbows again if she wants a shot at him.

Gerard is easier to get to, but Gabe barely has a chance to say, “Good to have you back,” before Gerard’s face lights up and he says, “Mikey!”

Brother trumps captain of a submarine, Gabe figures, so he drops back to let the welcoming committee get their say. Bob has already chosen this course of action, hanging around the fringes of the group with his arms crossed, waiting in case he’s needed. Frank is actually physically bouncing beside him, up onto his toes to see over everyone else’s heads.

Dr. Salpeter finally pulls everyone off of Urie, throwing Gabe an exasperated look as she does, and Urie manages to look both sheepish and stupidly happy at the same time. Gabe notes that while his crewmates seem to be graciously allowing Dr. Salpeter access, they’re not actually letting go of him yet.

Frank suddenly disappears, darting through the small crowd, and surfaces at Gerard’s side a second later. They stare at each other for a second, and then Gerard says, “You know, the first ink used to write with was made from the pigment in an octopus’ ink sac,” and Frank says, “Motherfucker,” and tackles him into a bear hug.

“We’re going to need a new cook,” William comments, and Gabe glances sideways to see that he’s taken Frank’s place next to Bob.

“You think?” Gabe asks. “Why, have you seen something?”

William rolls his eyes. “I’ve seen the way Frank’s been looking at Gerard,” he says.

Gabe sneaks a look at Bob, just to see how he’s handling the news. Bob looks remarkably stoic about this turn of events.

Gabe scratches his chin. “Maybe Alex will take over for a while,” he suggests. “I think he’s getting sick of tofu.”

-

It takes a while for the hubbub to die down, but when it does, Gabe orders them to the surface for a while. The head of his science department is on bed rest under Dr. Salpeter’s very stern orders, and the visiting biology team doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to go anywhere. He gives Clandestine a heads-up on the delay and leaves Ryland in charge when he retreats back to his quarters.

He’s not entirely surprised to find William already there, but then he never is. “Captain McCoy,” Gabe says in greeting, stripping off his jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair, since William has claimed his bunk.

“Captain Saporta,” Travis answers. “Good job unsinking your boat.”

“Thanks,” Gabe says. He rolls the knots out of his shoulders, exhaling when he feels the joints pop. “It’s been an exciting couple of hours.”

William’s watching him, strangely intent but also soft, enough that Gabe can’t figure out what he’s thinking. “I told Travie most of the story,” he says, “but if you want, you can fill in the details.”

“Urie’s staying,” Gabe tells them, because it’s the most recent news, and William will probably be pleased to hear it. “He says he’s had enough of squid for a while.” Privately, Gabe doesn’t think that’s all there is to it, but hey, he’s not going to complain.

William is apparently thinking the same thing. “I’m betting Walker and Smith join Ross and Urie for a foursome within six months,” he says.

“I’m not taking that bet,” Gabe informs him with a lazy smile. “You cheat.”

“I haven’t seen anything,” William protests, rolling over onto his stomach.

“No,” Gabe admits, “but you will, and then you’ll get all shifty about it.”

“I’ll take it,” Travis puts in. “My money’s on Walker and Urie hooking up because Smith and Ross can’t get their shit together.”

“You don’t have money,” Gabe argues. “You’re dead.”

“Have poker night here next time,” Travis challenges. “I’ll clean all you pussies out.”

“Thanks for backing me up earlier,” William says suddenly, and Gabe looks over at him, attention diverted from the mock-argument. “About Mikey,” William clarifies. “No other captain would have listened.”

“Hey, it was cool,” Gabe says. “We all got to think about the ocean. It was like group meditation.”

His personal meditations on the ocean are usually more along the lines of fantasies about William swimming naked in the sunlight and beckoning him in, but with William right there being all calm and psychic and shit, and since they’d been in the middle of a rescue mission, Gabe had kept the ocean thoughts to mainly ice-blue waves.

“I wouldn’t be entirely opposed to the idea, you know,” William says.

Gabe keeps his expression at its most innocent. He’s never sure when William has actually picked up on something and when he’s just being random. “What idea would that be?” he asks casually.

“You know,” William says, and then he’s smiling, so fucking young but hot as fuck, and Gabe wants to blow him against every flat surface in this room. “What you were just thinking about regarding the ocean.” His smile grows a little, cat-with-cream at the corners. “What you’re thinking about now.”

It takes Gabe a second to work through the fact that after all this time, William is actually making an overture. “Seriously?” he asks, because the things he’s thinking about right now are pretty fucking x-rated.

“Yeah,” William says, and stretches, languorous, and there’s no way that isn’t a gold-plated invitation to molest the hell out of him. “I’m getting tired of waiting.”

Gabe gapes at him. “You could have said something,” he says finally. “Shit. I know you knew.”

“It doesn’t count if I only see it,” William replies, suddenly solemn, curling up onto his side. “I needed you to say it.”

Gabe honestly has no problem with that. “I want to fuck you in every position we can think of,” he says fervently. “And then I want to lick every inch of your body clean until you beg me to do it again.”

William’s smiling again, eyes dark, and Gabe’s on his way to make sure William never leaves his bunk again when there’s the sound of a throat clearing behind him.

“As much as I appreciate that you leave me on all the time,” Travis says, “this would be a great time to shut my program down for a while.”

“What, no free porn?” Gabe jokes, but he’s already on his way over. He’d rather they not have an audience, if William agrees to even half of what Gabe is thinking about.

“Neither of you are hot naked chicks,” Travis replies. “It doesn’t even count.”

Gabe very much disagrees with that. “Oh, it counts,” he says, pushing the button to send Travis misting out of existence. William grins at him, and Gabe’s only two steps from the bed, already peeling his shirt off. “It so fucking counts.”

William opens right up to lick the tip of his finger when Gabe presses it against his lips and leans over to hit the com button. “Ryland,” he says, climbing in to straddle William’s slim hips. “Bridge is yours. Keep us on course, I’m not going to be back for a while.”

“Aye, sir,” Ryland replies instantly.

“Aye, sir,” William echoes, breathy and half-laughing, and Gabe’s betting he just got a whiff of the fantasy playing out in Gabe’s head right now.

“Fucking parapsychologists,” Gabe mutters, grinning, and turns the com off so he has both hands free to push William down onto the sheets.


End file.
